


ain't no glory in the west

by tragicallynerdy



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Abandonment, Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood, Blood and Injury, Branding, Buried Alive, Canon-Typical Violence, Carrying, Chronic Hanahaki, Comfort, Drowning, Eldritch, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 4 spoilers, Gen, Ghosts, Grief, Guilt, Hanahaki Disease, Hanging, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Ignoring an Injury, Infection, Injury, M/M, Magic, Nightmares, Non-lethal Hanahaki, Panic Attacks, Possession, Power Outage, Rescue, Ritual Sacrifice, Seer Miriam, Stabbing, Storms, Violence, Werebear Matthew Mason, Whipping, Whump, Whumptober 2020, field medicine, wound reveal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 54,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26702461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallynerdy/pseuds/tragicallynerdy
Summary: The man who will be Matthew comes back to life with a burning in his veins and fire in his chest, a roar bursting out of the throat that should not work. He is scales and fire, something impossible, something reborn of blood and ash and bone, of the gold that will consume them. He is rage and greed, hatred spilling forth in noxious waves of smoke bubbling from between the fangs he wears so well.The men who killed him are dragging his corpse away from their camp when he bursts into flame, exploding into something new, something that should not exist. He twists to the sky on shaky wings, scream turning to a roar as claws burst from his skin, as he becomes and becomes and becomes.(This thing that he is not, was not, now ever more shall be -)Chapter 20: This is how dragons are born. From greed, from blood, from the burning sting of gold in their veins.A collection of whump ficlets, written for Whumptober 2020 and beyond, focused on the Deadwood Five.
Relationships: Aloysius Fogg/Clayton Sharpe, Aloysius Fogg/Matthew Mason, Aloysius Fogg/Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe, Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 153
Kudos: 114
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Matthew (hanging, rescue)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y’all! This is a collection of Undeadwood ficlets for Whumptober 2020, following the official prompt list which can be found [here](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/628055505485561856/whumptober-2020-updated). I’m going to be attempting to post one chapter every other day for all of October, for a total of ~16 ficlets, with the focus spread evenly amongst the Deadwood Five. There may be more, depending on how ambitious I get (and how many prompts I can cram into each ficlet). 
> 
> The title comes from No Glory In The West by Orville Peck. 
> 
> Warnings for each individual chapter will be posted in the author’s notes, please heed them and take care of yourselves. I'll try remember to add major tags to the fic as well, but not all tags will be added (mainly so it's not a wall of tags and the important ones get seen) - the author's note at the start of each chapter will be the best place to check for potential triggers. The "graphic depictions of violence" warnings applies for most chapters. 
> 
> This chapter was prompted by afearsomecritter, who requested Matthew for the prompt of “hanging”. The prompts covered in this chapter are no. 1 hanging, and no. 5 rescue. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: physical violence, beating, blood, hanging, asphyxiation, major character death and subsequent resurrection/impermanent character death, immortal character, and general panic. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope y’all enjoy!

Matthew still remembers the first time he was hanged. It’s the sort of thing that’s hard to forget, after all. Or at least he assumes so. He doesn’t actually know many other people who’ve died and lived to tell the tale (for whatever given manner of ‘living’ this constitutes), but one’s own deaths tend to stick in the mind like glue.

(Here is what he remembers: the spatter of rain on his bare head, the trickle of freezing cold water down his back. A flash of lightning, and a curse from the man struggling to tie the sodden rope into a noose. The strain of his muscles as he pulls and thrashes and fights, then the taste of mud and the bitterness of blood in his mouth as strong hands shove him to the ground. The bite of rope around his wrists, the press of a boot against his back, the way he’s already struggling for air and they hadn’t even hanged him yet and –)

There’s little to compare with the terror of knowing with so much certainty that you’re going to die, that this is it. There is no miracle. There is no saviour. There’s just you, your sins, and the short drop to an early grave.

(He really should have seen it coming.)

But the thing about dying is this: you’re not supposed to wake up. So when you do, when you wake up in the ground or lying at the bottom of a tree with a noose around your throat, or in the doctor’s office with a white sheet over your face and blood on your clothes – well, that changes things. It takes some of the sting away, some of the fear of the finality of death. Because death isn’t final – at least not for Matthew.

(It doesn’t change the fear of death itself, the pure panic of knowing the pain is coming, Matthew’s hind brain kicking into full gear and pushing him to _survive_ , goddammit -)

_Death isn’t final. You’ve done this before._

That is what Matthew tries to remind himself as he’s dragged out of Deadwood some hours after midnight by five men who’ve broken into the church and hauled him away. It had been too dark to make out their faces, but it’s not like seeing them would have made any bit of difference; they’ve taken him, and nothing he can do will change that fact. His head spins from the hit he’s taken, his hands are numb from the rope biting into his wrists, and his ribs ache from the saddle underneath him. He tells himself that he doesn’t need to be afraid, that they’ll hang him or beat him and leave him for dead, and then he can stumble on home or stumble away from this shitty little town.

(The others don’t know he can’t die, haven’t seen him gasp back to life, and even though he’s afraid of dying he’s more afraid of coming back to life and having to leave them because he’s an abomination and he knows what they do to the undead -)

He should have expecting this.

* * *

They don’t ride far out of town, just far enough that no one will hear him if he screams. He looses track of time, the pounding in his head making it hard to focus, and the darkness making it hard to see where they are. He struggles against the ropes, works his wrists raw and bloody, but whoever tied him did their job well. The sky is lightening into the deep to the deep dusty grey of pre-dawn when they draw to a halt under a tree, tall and twisted and bare of any leaves it may once have born. 

_The perfect hanging tree._

Matthew thrashes as he’s pulled from the horse, manages to kick one man in the gut and smash another’s nose with his head. Then he’s being pummeled from all sides, shoved to the ground and kicked until he stops struggling.

(He stops struggling quicker than he ought to. He tells himself that more pain is not worth it, that this will hurt enough -)

“This is what deserters get,” one of the men snarls as they loop the noose around his neck. The rope is rough and raw against his skin, a familiar sensation. Matthew spits blood on the man speaking and gets a backhand to the face in response.

“I knew you was that fucking coward Martin Jameson as soon as I saw you.” The man is familiar, and it only takes Matthew a split second to place him as one of the men who’d threatened him after Farnum’s death six weeks ago. Why they waited this long, he doesn’t know.

“The Lord will avenge me,” Matthew says through gritted teeth. “Your souls will be damned, for I am _his_.”

(He still doesn’t know if he means the _Lord_ , God, the one he has devoted his life to, or the Dealer, the new being that’s given him magic and power in a way that God never has. It doesn’t matter much either way, he supposes. Neither of them are coming for him.)

One man pauses, fear flashing across his face. The man in front of him punches Matthew in the teeth before he can speak again. Matthew sees stars as more blood fills his mouth, one tooth breaking loose.

“Don’t listen to his nonsense, boy,” the man growls. “He ain’t no fucking priest, he’s just a goddamn conman.”

Someone fumbles with his shirt, pinning something to the thin undershirt he’d been wearing when they dragged him out of bed.

“Gotta let people know,” the man tightening the noose around his neck says. “That their preacher ain’t no good man.”

“Never said I was a good man,” Matthew wheezes. “Only that I am the Lord’s.”

“Shouldn’t we put him on a horse?” the scared man whispers. “So his neck breaks when he falls? It’s kinder –“

“He don’t deserve kindness,” the first man spits.

 _And ain’t that just the truth,_ Matthew thinks.

They pull the noose tight around his neck and Matthew finds himself choking already as he attempts to breath, mouth open and gasping. There’s sounds of shuffling, a curse, and then all of them disappear. He has one last spike of fear, and then he’s being hoisted into the air by the noose around his neck as they pull the rope taut.

(At least the other times he’s been hanged they let him drop, were kind enough to try and break his spine and make it quick and not the fucking godawful slow suffocation that _this_ is -)

It’s slow, and painful, and he wants nothing more than for it to be over, for them to cut him down and bury him and let it be _over_ -

He dies.

* * *

When he wakes they are gone, and the sky is incrementally lighter. His head feels funny, thick and too goddamn heavy for his body, neck aching and stiff and –

It takes longer than it should for him to realize that he’s still hanging, body swaying lightly back and forth in the breeze. That his lungs haven’t filled with air, that they’re already _burning_ with the lack of oxygen, the heavy rope tight around his neck and keeping him where he is, dangling above the ground.

But he realizes, and then he starts to panic, thrashing with his feet and hands and trying and trying to break free –

(It doesn’t matter, doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. The ropes are strong and the noose is solid and expertly tied; there is no chance of him falling, not before he was intended. They meant for him to be an example; they meant for his body to be seen, dangling above the ground, a warning for all other cowards.)

He dies. And then he sputters back to life, and chokes again, lungs burning and burning as he dies and dies and dies and dies -

(He loses track.)

* * *

A human being, deprived of oxygen, dies within four to five minutes. Within another ten, fifteen at most, Matthew gasps back to life. Just enough time for the men who hanged him to decide that the deed is done and to flee into the night; just enough time that they don’t notice the second time he starts dancing in the ropes. No one notices the third time, or the fourth, or the fifteenth.

(He's lucky, he supposes, that they picked a rope thick enough to hold him that long, that it didn't just slice off his head and maybe put an end to his existence. Luck is such a relative term.)

It takes hours for anyone to find him.

* * *

The sun is high overhead when he hears a woman scream. It sounds like it’s from far away, but it’s hard to tell, when the blood is rushing through your ears and the panic and the lack of oxygen are making everything blurry and warped. It doesn’t matter anyway; he’s nearly unconscious, and knows he’ll be dead within a minute or two. Just like the last time, and the time before that, and the –

( _Don’t think about it don’t think about it – )_

He dies.

* * *

When he wakes there are gentle hands on his body, and someone is sobbing over him. The sobs cut off as he heaves in a breath, body jerking back to life. Or he tries to anyway, but the noose is still tight around his neck and he’s can’t _breathe_.

“Shit, _fuck_ -“

Someone cusses, then fumbles at his neck. His head is pushed to the side, neck exposed, and the cool metal of a knife rests against his skin.

(And he has a brief moment of pure animal fear that they won’t even wait for him to choke, they’ll just cut his throat and end him now and God would that be better or worse, he doesn’t know but he’s about to find out -)

The knife slides against his skin but does not cut him, then starts sawing at the rope, and Matthew feels a flood of relief. He slits open his eyes, tries to still his thrashing to make it easier for them, and sees Clayton hovering over him, cussing a blue streak as he frantically tries to cut Matthew free. He opens his mouth to speak, but his lungs are still empty, and nothing comes out.

“Clayton, _hurry!_ ”

Miriam’s face swims into view, streaked with tears and pale. She looks at him, fresh tears spilling out as she notices that he’s looking at her.

(He doesn’t see what she sees, doesn’t see the horror and the pain and goddamn fear lingering in his eyes, or the neck pinched white and mottled with deep bruises and streaks of red, the paper pinned to his chest that reads "deserter" and "conman", the heavy rope still so goddamn _tight_ -)

The rope falls away, and he can _breathe_.

He rolls on his side, coughs out the bile and the blood from biting his tongue more times than he can count ( _it’s a wonder he didn’t bite it clean off_ , he thinks,) and gasps for air, closing his eyes as his lungs fill for the first time in hours. It _hurts_ , each breath a reminder that his throat is a wreck, that he’s been hanging from his neck for hours.

 _But Lord_ , he’d forgotten how good breathing felt, the relief the simple movement carried.

“Reverend,” Miriam whispers, her hand touching his shoulder. Matthew startles, blinks open bloodshot eyes to stare at her, heart racing with the panic coursing through his body. She’s still crying, and Matthew wonders why. “Reverend, how –“

“Not now,” Clayton mutters from behind him. His bigger hand lands on Matthew’s back, starts rubbing slow and easy circles. “Just breathe, Matthew. We’ve got you. You’re okay.”

He listens. He closes his eyes again and slumps against the ground, lets their hands remind him that they are here, that he is alive, that it’s over. He closes his eyes a moment too long and the exhaustion and death washes over him and he drifts –

He jerks awake in a panic, throat closing and hands (now free and bloodied; he’ll have scars from the ropes, although he doesn’t know that now) flying to his throat. Big hands wrap around his wrists and he thrashes, lashing out at whoever the _fuck_ is holding him. (He won’t let them hang him again, he won’t he _won’t_ \- ) The hands don’t budge, holding him as easy as anything, and panic spikes before he registers what’s being said.

“Easy, easy now,” Clayton is saying, holding his hands away from his throat. Matthew forces his body to relax, sucking in a deep breath just to prove to himself that he can. “That’s it. Your throat’s real bad Rev’rend, ain’t good to be touchin’ it right now.”

“They really did a number on him,” Miriam mutters. Matthew opens his eyes to see them both looking down at him. Miriam smiles, and presses a damp cloth to one of his eyebrows. It stings, and Matthew is momentarily surprised that he can feel pain other than the burning in his lungs and the wrench in his spine and the deep ache around his throat.

“Reverend. Matthew.” Matthew shifts his attention to Clayton, who looks _angry._ “How long ago did they leave? If the posse ain’t left but a few minutes ago, we gotta move –“

“No,” Matthew wheezes. (Don't leave me, he wants to say.) His voice is _ruined_ , cracked and broken and raw, and speaking is agony. “It’s been hours.”

Miriam’s hand on his forehead stills, and Clayton freezes. Matthew wonders what he said, what made them stop. He closes his eyes, lets himself breathe again.

“How many times?” Clayton’s voice is quiet, as dead as the eye of the storm.

Matthew laughs. It comes out like shards of glass, like something as broken as he feels. “I lost count.”

Miriam swears, and Clayton’s hands on his wrists tighten for a moment before he loosens his grip, thumbs smoothing across Matthew’s bloody skin. He lifts one of Matthew’s hands to his lips, presses a kiss to his cracked knuckles.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. The sentiment is echoed closely by Miriam. “We should have been here sooner.”

* * *

They bundle him up in the spare blanket they thought to bring, then help him onto the back of Clayton’s horse. Clayton reaches back and snags Matthew’s hands, then tugs until his arms are wrapped around his waist, until Matthew is leaning against him and resting his cheek on Clayton’s shoulder. Matthew closes his eyes and breathes, lets the soft leather of Clayton’s duster under his cheek and the soap-clean smell of his hair keep him grounded. The tightness of his throat (a familiar feeling after strangulation, albeit one he’d hoped he’d never feel again) is an ever-present reminder of what just occurred, and it takes effort not to fall back into the panic. He’s grateful for the bulk of Clayton in front of him, the solidness and warmth of his frame, his steadfast nature. If he holds on just a little too tight, Clayton says nothing. And it helps, it does.

(But it doesn’t quite work, doesn’t quite block the flashes of thick rope tight around his neck and kicking legs and slick wrists twisting behind him trying to break _free_ -

It helps. But it doesn’t quite work.)

By the time they’ve reached the town Matthew’s wounds have all but disappeared. He’ll have scars (he always does, despite the speed at which he heals), but that’s nothing new. He’s grateful for this part of it, for the rapid healing he’s been bestowed with. It makes it almost worth it, or at least eases the sting a little; if he has to die (and die, and die), to endure the pain of death so many times, then he’s alright with skipping the slow healing that most humans experience.

If Clayton and Miriam notice the lack of bruising and open wounds (which they must, they _must_ ), they don’t say anything. They just help him from his horse, and take him inside, and draw him a bath.

Later, there will be questions about it, about how he survived. And later, he will answer, best as he can (and they will keep him anyway, and he will wonder at his luck, at the love that they offer). But not now. Now there are just them, and the kindness in their eyes, and the gentleness of their hands.

And that is enough, for now.

(Almost. But not quite.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope y'all enjoyed! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated <3
> 
> I'm on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


	2. Arabella, Matthew ("pick who dies," ritual sacrifice)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'd pick me every time, Arabella," Matthew says with a small smile. "It's only right that the shepherd should die for his sheep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all y'all who left kudos and comments on chapter 1!! You are wonderful and very appreciated <3 
> 
> Anyway, here's some more whump! 
> 
> Prompts covered in this ficlet are no. 2 "pick who dies" and no. 9 "ritual sacrifice," focusing mainly on Arabella, but with some bonus Matthew.
> 
> Warnings include: discussions of human sacrifice, discussions of ritual sacrifice, mentions of blood and death, grief, and physical violence. No major character death takes place in this one.

She didn’t know why they had been chosen. Maybe because she was young, and he was a priest, and they were presumed to be innocent, or some such bullshit. Maybe because people knew that she ‘volunteered’ for the church, and believed that she shared Matthew’s holiness. Maybe because they’d been the only two out in the graveyard that day. Maybe because they needed a pair, needed people who were _friends_ , who were close, who would choose to save one another no matter the cost.

(And they’d tried to save each other, when they got ambushed in the graveyard. They tried to fight, to call on the Dealer and use the magic burning in their veins, but it had only left Arabella with a wound in her side and blood in her mouth, and Matthew with a stupor that let them wind tight ropes around his wrists.

It shouldn’t have been so easy.)

But now here they were, sitting in a clearing high up in the Black Hills and glaring at the man who’d given them an offer. The offer was simple; one dies, one leaves. You can choose, he said. As though the offer was a kindness, as though it was something easy. As though it made their sacrifice a willing one.

“We only need one,” grinned the man with perfect teeth. Gold flashed on his lapel as he shifted in the sun, a sign of wealth, of prosperity. “One of you has more than enough blood for the ritual.”

Arabella felt the weight of Matthew’s shoulder against hers, the warmth of his body, and tried to imagine him lifeless and cold.

“No,” she snapped. “No, we won’t pick.”

The woman behind him glared at her, and started forward, but the man with perfect teeth held up a hand and she stopped in her tracks.

“That’s not how this works, my darling sacrifice,” he drawled. “Blood has been demanded, and so blood must be spilt.” He nodded at the woman behind him, and the man that stood behind Arabella and Matthew. “We only needed one, but apparently it was easier to bring both of you. And if we must, well…” he grinned with all his perfect teeth. “More blood certainly won’t do any harm.”

(Was it meant to be a kindness, that he didn’t give them more time to decide? It meant less time to fret, and argue, let their love for each other tear into them as they tried to deny each other the right to sacrifice themselves. It may have been less cruel, but that did not make it kind.)

Arabella grit her teeth, and steeled her gut, and told herself that she hadn’t really wanted to live that much lately, anyhow. She missed her sister; maybe now they would finally be reunited. It would be worth it, if only Matthew could live, if only he could return, if only –

She opened her mouth, ash on her tongue, but Matthew was already speaking.

“Take me,” he said, and stilled her beating heart. “Take me.”

“What? No, Matthew – take me, take _me –“_

A hand cracked against her jaw, silencing her and filling her mouth with blood. She swallowed it down, and tried to swallow down the grief and terror that threatened to consume her.

“A choice has been made, then,” the man with perfect teeth said, as though he hadn’t just smacked her until she saw stars. As though he hadn’t just torn her heart out and sent her world crashing down around her head. “The Gilded One will be pleased with your sacrifice.” His face softened into something almost kind, and it made her want to hurl. “We’ll give you a minute to say your goodbyes.”

She was crying before he even turns away, tears trickling down her cheeks and into her mouth, salt mixing with the bitter blood resting in her mouth. 

Matthew looked at her, and he was calm, calmer than he should be.

“When they let you go, you need to run,” he said, soft and low and achingly gentle. “Follow the shadows of the trees as the sun sets, that’ll get you back to the road. Then _home_ , Arabella, straight home. No stopping, no coming back to try and save me. Alright?”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I’m not _going_ , I’m not fucking leaving you, Matthew you _can’t_ –“

Matthew leaned in close, his forehead resting against hers. “You need to _go_ , Arabella. I’ll be alright. Okay? I’ll be alright. The Lord will watch over me.”

She sobbed, the sound wrenching from her chest and choking her with its ferocity. She shook her head, refusing to accept this, this thing that will break her in two. He is _hers_ , her friend, her family if not in blood at least in spirit, and she cannot let it end. Not like this. She’d rather die than let that happen, then let his light get snuffed out.

“No, Matthew, please, please let them take me, you can’t –“

“Arabella.” His voice was firm, and she bit her lip as he pulled back to look her in the eye. “Little sister. I’d pick me every time, dear heart.” He smiled. “For it’s only right that the shepherd should die for his sheep."

“You don’t – you don’t get to _say_ that, I ain’t even one of yours –“

A hand yanked her to her feet, interrupting her pleading. She struggled, kicking and flailing until she was backhanded again, hard enough that the world went grey at the edges of her vision. When she could see again Matthew was snarling, arms straining as he was held back by the woman and the third man, the one with the crooked nose. 

“Do not _touch_ her,” Matthew growled. “She is not _yours_.”

The man with the perfect teeth laughed in her ear, and Arabella shuddered, shying away. “And what? She is yours?”

Matthew opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He looked at Arabella, more serious than she’d ever seen him. “ _Go_ , Arabella. _Please_.”

The man with the perfect teeth hauled her to the edge of the forest and cut the rope from her wrists. Then he pushed her, sending her stumbling past the edge of the clearing, nearly tripping to the ground from the force of the shove.

“ _Go!_ ” Matthew shouted.

She took a step toward him, but the man with the perfect teeth was there, with his knife and his perfect smile. Looking past him, she locked eyes with Matthew, tears running down her face.

“I love you so damn much," she whispered, voice thick with tears. Then she turned, and she ran.

(She did not look back.)

* * *

“Thank you,” Matthew said softly, once he was sure Arabella is gone, once the lines they were carving into the ground were nearly complete. “For your kindness. She does not need to see this. She does not need to know.”

The woman and the man with the crooked nose ignored him, but the man with the perfect teeth smiled.

“We are nothing if not kind,” he said, and stood, gesturing for Matthew to rise. “Come. Sunset will soon be upon us.”

Matthew smiled up at him at him genially, then shook his head slowly. He glanced at the long shadows of the trees around them, then at the dusky sky and the pale yellow moon that lay heavy overhead, visible in the pink and purple of early sunset.

“No,” he said, “no, I don’t think so.”

The woman started forward, clutching the ceremonial knife and holding it out, like she would stab him if she kept talking. He looked at it, then at her, then raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know what my name means?” he asked conversationally. He didn’t let them answer, and didn’t raise his voice. Somehow it swelled, filled the space, blotted out their voices and their threats. “Matthew. Gift of God. I was given it by my Lord. Gift of God, he said, as he laid it upon me like a mantle.”

He smiled, and his teeth were jagged points in the late evening light. His eyes had gone black, ink bleeding down his cheeks in thick streaks like tears made of tar as shadows pooled underneath him. The man with the perfect teeth stopped smiling, just as fear dawned on his face, bright and beautiful as the sunrise. The woman dropped her knife, and the man with the crooked nose backed away. Matthew laughed, and it was a horrible thing.

“And that gift?” he said, snapping the bonds around his wrists, “that gift is not for _you._ ”

* * *

(Arabella heard a scream, high and loud and terrible. She ducked her head down, and kept running, the shadows dogging her steps.

She cried the whole way home.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Hope y'all enjoyed. Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 
> 
> I'm on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


	3. Aloysius ("get it out", field medicine) (Aloysius/Clayton/Matthew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For fuck’s sakes, just get it out,” Aly said through gritted teeth, clenching his fists in the thick weave of his trouser legs as he struggled to stay upright. “It's just a knife, I ain’t gonna fuckin’ die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! So my ficlet for day no. 4 ("buried alive") is fighting me tooth and nail, so it's being yeeted to sometime later in the month. Instead you get an early day no. 6 ficlet, featuring Aloysius and some soft AlyClaySon!
> 
> The prompts covered in this one are no. 6 ("get it out") and no. 20 (field medicine). Warnings include: stabbing, injury, blood, first aid, feelings of guilt, and panic. This one also includes vague spoilers for UnDeadwood episode 4.

There was a knife in his leg. There was a knife in his leg, and Aly knew that it wasn’t good.

It had been an accident. Well, not an accident, not really – more so a mistake on his part, and a very intentional placement of the knife on the part of one of the thieves who’d attempted to rob them blind. Just a little light highway robbery, a gang of men surrounding them in the tiny canyon they’d ridden through and threatening them with guns. A normal occurrence in the West, if he was being honest about it.

It really was the perfect ambush, with well-prepared robbers, and enough nooks and crannies in the canyon for them to hide in. And if they had been robbing anyone but the Deadwood five, it probably would have worked. But the robbers weren’t expecting goddamn lightning to come out of Arabella’s fingertips, or the burst of power that came from Matthew’s, and so the tides had quickly turned. Until one of them had stabbed Aly in the thigh and shoved him to the ground, that is.

“For fuck’s sakes Clay, just get it out,” he said through gritted teeth, clenching his fists in the thick weave of his trouser legs as he struggled to stay sitting upright. “It's just a knife, I ain’t gonna fuckin’ die.”

Clayton looked at him, hesitated, then looked at Arabella for direction. She was digging furiously through her med kit looking for something. What exactly she was trying to find, he wasn’t sure, and it was getting harder and harder to focus on whatever was happening around him.

"Bells?" Clayton asked. 

“Leave it,” Arabella said shortly. “He’ll bleed out before we can stitch him up if you pull it out now.”

_Fuck that._

Aly ground his teeth and reached for it himself. It felt _wrong_ , sharp metal burning inside of his thigh as sticky hot blood stained his trousers dark.

“Aly _wait –“_

Clayton reached for him, but before Aly could so much as touch the handle someone else grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand away from the knife with a firm grip. Someone settled behind him and wrapped thick arms around him, pulling him back against a broad chest and trapping both of his arms against his stomach. The smell of sweat, parchment and ink, and electricity was purely Matthew. Aly scowled and tugged on his wrists, but the hold didn’t give.

“Leave it, darlin’,” Matthew said in his ear, as the bristle of his stubble brushed against Aly’s cheek. “It ain’t safe to move it yet.” 

Aly grit his teeth and tugged on his hands again, but Matthew’s grip was firm. 

“Fuck off, Matty,” he snapped, spine itching at the containment. “If you ain’t gonna take it out, then I will.”

Aly moved his legs to gain more traction, twisting in Matthew’s arms, but the explosion of pain in his thigh that followed hit him like a punch to the gut. Two sets of hands clamped down on his leg as he choked out a cry and arched his back, head tossing back Matthew’s shoulder. Sharp knees pressed against his other leg, his _bad_ leg, as someone knelt on him a bit too hard, tearing another cry from his mouth. He heard Clayton swear, and Matthew’s arms held him tighter as he sagged back in his grip, vision going spotty.

“Hold him still,” he heard Arabella snap through the haze of pain. “If we slice his artery, there ain’t no savin’ him but with magic –“

“No,” Aly breathed, horror and dread filling him at the memory of the last time magic had been used to heal him. (Clayton, bleeding out in the streets, his own heart hollow and empty, the pain that came later -) His head spun sickeningly as panic swirled in his chest, mixing with the blood loss and leaving him with numb hands and an ever-growing sense of confusion and dread. “No, no no no you _can’t –“_

The hands holding him clamped down harder, and Matthew clucked soothingly in his ear. He could hear Clayton nearby calling his name, and if that didn’t make it all worse.

_I can’t hurt him again, I **can’t** –_

“Hold still, Aly, c’mon, you’re alright –“

Aly tried to twist, tried to get away, but the hands wouldn’t let him.

“Don’t let me cast, Matthew,” he gasped, rolling his face to the side and trying to see Matthew through staticky vision. “I can’t try and heal m’self, I can’t let it happen again –“

“I won’t,” Matthew promised, voice simultaneously soft and firm. “I promise Aly, I won’t let you cast. You ain’t gonna get the backlash, not again.”

_Matthew wouldn’t lie to me. Not about this._

Aly sagged into his hold in relief as the world spun in dizzying circles. Something deep in his leg throbbed, sending sparks of pain all up and down his leg. He felt numb, and that was never a good thing. He remembered the last time; it never led to anything good. His eyes slipped shut.

“Don’t let me try and kill him again, Matthew,” he mumbled. Matthew’s cheek pressed against his, and he wondered why the other man felt so goddamn warm. “Please, don’t let me –“

“You won’t,” Matthew whispered. “I swear, love, you won’t –“

The sound of counting drowned him out. Then the hands pressed down harder, something nudged the knife, and Aly _screamed._ Someone swore, then something nudged the knife again. And then they were pulling it free, tugging it from his flesh, and _god_ -

(Someone was screaming and screaming but he couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t hear properly he was buried under an inch of water five feet of dirt cotton balls stuffed in his ears and-)

He passed out.

* * *

Murmurs woke him up, quiet voices, distant, or at least sounding far away. Porcelain clattered against wood, then something liquid sloshed in a bowl. Footsteps, the creak of a door, then something cool and wet pressed against his cheek. Aly wrinkled his brow, and the cloth withdrew.

“Aly?” someone said softly. “You awake, sweetheart?”

“No,” he mumbled back. “Stop that, ‘s cold.”

Knuckles brushed his cheek affectionately. “Alright,” the voice said. “Can you open your eyes?”

Aly frowned. _His eyes were closed, why were his eyes closed…_

Opening them was harder than it should have been. It felt like his eyelids were coated with lead, the heaviness that only came with unconsciousness. When he managed to pry them open, Clayton was smiling down at him with the softness that always seemed reserved just for him, just for Matthew, just for _them_. Aly blinked.

“Clay?”

Clayton’s eyes crinkling up around the edges as he nodded. “Yeah, ‘s me. How you feelin’?”

Aly blinked again, then swallowed. His throat was dry, and he was exhausted. Everything hurt in the distant, floaty way that indicated he’d been given opium. 

“Thirsty,” he settled on, not wanting to go into the rest of it. Clayton nodded, then disappeared, returning a moment later with a cup in hand. He held it to Aly’s lips, the tin cool to the touch.

“Slowly,” Clayton said as Aly drank greedily. He pulled the cup back after a moment, smiling at the pout Aly gave him. “I’ll give you more in a minute,” he promised. Aly nodded, then let his eyes slip back closed.

“What happened?” he asked, finally. It all felt hazy. He remembered pain, and arms around him, the bristle of a beard pressed to his cheek.

“You got stabbed in the leg,” Clayton said. Chair legs dragged across the floor, then wood creaked as Clayton settled into it. “It was real bad, Aly.”

“Oh.” Aly frowned. “I’m sorry.”

A hand lifted his, then warm lips pressed against the back of his hand. Clayton set their hands back on the bed, holding Aly’s gently, thumb smoothing across his knuckles.

“No need to be sorry, love,” he murmured. “We’re just glad… just glad you’re safe. That’s all.”

Aly nodded, swallowing down the sudden tightness in his throat. He frowned, then blinked his eyes back open to look at Clayton.

“Matty?” he asked.

Clayton smiled, and nodded towards Aly’s other side. Aly looked down to see Matthew sitting in a chair, slumped forward onto the bed by Aly’s hip, head pillowed on his arms. He smiled, relieved to see him unharmed.

“He wouldn’t let you out of his sight,” Clayton said softly. “He stayed up with you, made me go get some sleep on the sofa so we could take shifts. He fell asleep while I was makin’ breakfast.”

Aly wrinkled his brow. “We’re home?”

Clayton nodded, then held out the cup of water, waiting until Aly took a drink. “We thought it’d be better than campin’ out in ‘Bella’s office. She stopped by this mornin’, checked you over. She’ll be back later.”

Aly hummed, then let himself sink deeper into the pillow. His eyes fell shut again. “That’s good,” he said with a yawn. “Like it here.”

Clayton squeezed his hand. “I do too, love.”

“Don’t wanna lose it,” Aly muttered, head lolling against the pillow. “Don’t wanna lose you. Or Matty. Not again.”

A hand cupped his cheek, and Aly forced his eyes open to look at Clayton’s grey-blue eyes. Clayton dipped in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“You won’t,” he promised. “I swear, love. We won’t let it happen.” He hesitated, then stroked his thumb along Aly’s cheekbone. His eyes were serious, and Aly forced himself to listen. “And Aly? You ain’t… I ain’t ever worried that you’re gonna hurt me again. You ain’t gonna, alright?”

The loose memory of being terrified at the prospect of casting, of losing himself to the Dealer and hurting Clayton or Matthew floated through is mind. He closed his eyes, and squeezed Clayton’s hand, anchoring himself in the here and now.

“Okay,” he whispered when he could speak without crying. “I… okay.”

Clayton kissed him again, just as soft, just as sweet.

“I trust you, Aly,” he whispered back. “We both do. We trust you with our damn lives, and our hearts.”

Aly smiled, tears finally spilling from the edges of his eyes as he turned his face towards Clayton like a sunflower seeking the warmth of the late summer sun. “I trust you too,” he breathed. “I love you, Clay. Love Matty too.”

“We know,” Clayton said. He thumbed a tear from Aly’s cheek, then pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We love you too.”

Aly nodded, then let himself sink, let himself drift in the warmth of Clayton and of Matthew, who stayed with him and took care of him and kept him safe.

“Go to sleep,” Clayton said, hand wrapped around Aly’s, a solid reminder of his presence. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! I just love these lads, and couldn't help but turn this one into some soft soft comfort for our boys. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 come yell at me on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/) if you want!


	4. Miriam (carrying, support, accidents)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miriam is a small woman and she knows it. It doesn’t mean she appreciates being carted around like a sack of flour, twisted leg or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Once again, huge thanks to all y'all who left comments and kudos, y'all are the best!!
> 
> The prompts used for today are no. 7 (carrying, support) and no. 28 (accidents). Huge thanks to afearsomecritter for their help with the chapter!!
> 
> Chapter warnings: physical injury, pain, discussions of grief and loss and vulnerability in relation to Miriam's husband's death.

Miriam was a small woman. She knew this, had known it all her life. Well, maybe not _all_ her life. She certainly felt tall when she was a girl, felt tall and strong and like she could do anything in the world – until the boys around her shot up in height, and she found herself glaring up at them and wishing she were tall. But she’d stayed small, and had learned to adapt, to use her petite nature and feminine wiles to her advantage. But that didn’t mean she appreciated any reminders of the fact.

That had been one of the things she loved about Harrison – tall man though he was, he never made her feel small in a way she didn’t like, never picked her up or moved her around without her express permission. He made her size a gift, made her seem light as air as he swung her around the dancefloor or carried her over their hearth, or swept her up into a kiss. Being carried, being _held_ , was too strong of a reminder of better times, times when he was healthy and strong and _here_.

And she knows what it’s like to be fragile, to feel like some delicate crystalline statue, something that will shatter at the lightest touch. Just as she knows what it means to feel strong, to feel sturdy and resilient and untouchable. And he’d _known_ her, known how to wrap his arms around her, how to turn the fragile crystal into nigh-unbreakable diamond, just as he’d known how to coax the diamond into something soft. He made both her strength and her weakness feel precious, feel important, feel loved. The vulnerability that she hated so much didn't feel so terrible, when Harrison was at her side.

But he wasn’t here anymore. It was only her and her fucking twisted leg, and her friend who was trying to convince her to let him carry her down the mountain they’d climbed.

“ _No_.” She glared at Clayton, who frowned harder and shifted uneasily where he was crouched beside her. “I do not appreciate being carted around like a sack of flour, so the answer is no.”

“Miriam…” Clayton sighed and took off his hat, running his hand through his hair. “You ain’t gonna be walking with that leg. Even with help, it ain’t gonna go well.”

Miriam scowled. It was true that her leg was hurt, and that walking was hard. She’d twisted her leg on one of the loose rocks that was so common on this mountainside, and had been cursing her luck ever since. She’d stepped wrong, pain shooting up her leg as it buckled and sent her tumbling down, her descent only halted by a luckily-placed tree. The fall had left her pale and shaking, with bruises and aches all over her body. Her leg _hurt_ , the muscles protesting every movement she’d attempted, and the boot on her foot was already tight from the swelling. She knew that if Arabella were here, she would be talking about how fast the ankle had swelled, and how she needed to stay off of it.

But Arabella was not here. There was only Clayton, and herself, and their horses over two miles below them, tied to a tree. They had to get back, and she’d be damned if she didn’t try to walk back herself. Because if she let him carry her… well, she really didn’t want to cry tonight, didn’t want to feel helpless. Didn’t want the vulnerability of needing help, of needing to be carried, of being anything less than the charming woman they knew her to be, sure in her own strengths. And she really didn’t want to dwell on the things that were long since past.

(She ignored the part of her that whispered something about friends, and about being loved, and about how being carried and being held would mean that she wasn’t so goddamn alone in this shitty world. That part was too vulnerable, striking her in the chest and tearing her ribs open to bare her heart to the world. It was too much to bear, too much to look at tonight. So she would walk, and she would keep the comfort at arm’s length. She could do this. She’d done it before.)

“Then help me up and give me an arm,” Miriam said through gritted teeth. Clayton’s mouth thinned, and he looked like he was going to protest, so she pressed again. “God _dammit_ Clayton are you going to help me or not?”

He sighed, then stood and held out a hand. She grabbed it tight and pulled herself up, gritting her teeth and swallowing back the cry of pain as her bad foot brushed the ground. Miriam closed her eyes and breathed, standing wobbly on one foot, trying desperately not to cry. Clayton’s hand was steady, and she clutched it like a lifeline.

When she finally looked at him Clayton looked worried again, forehead pinched and the frown back on his face. She gave a sickly smile and nodded encouragingly.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Clayton shook his head, and pulled her arm over his broad shoulders, stooping to her level and looping an arm securely around her waist.

“Anyone ever tell you how stubborn you are?” he muttered as they picked their way down the narrow path.

Miriam laughed shortly, already breathless and sweating after merely a few steps. Her ankle throbbed in time with her heart. “Harrison used to, all the time. ‘Stubborn as a mule,’ he always said.”

“He wasn’t wrong.”

* * *

Their system worked, albeit clumsily and slowly. Miriam bit her lip and stifled her pain and pushed on, ignoring the growing pains in her shoulder, her wrist, her uninjured knee. Clayton’s hand dug uncomfortably into her rib cage, trying to find purchase on the slick silk of her dress. Her ankle throbbed in time with her heartbeat, pinched as it was inside of her boot. And she was _cold_ , the temperature dropping as wind swept over the mountain.

“Fuck,” Clayton muttered sometime later as he glanced at the sky. Miriam barely noticed, blinded by the pain in her ankle and exhausted. They still had at least another mile to go, and it felt like a hundred. “Miriam, it’s gonna rain, we have to go faster.”

“I can’t,” she snarled, fisting his leather coat in her hand and trying to keep a firm hold as he stepped a bit too quickly. “Don’t you think I’m trying?”

“I know, I know, fuck, sorry.”

She tried, though, pushing herself harder, faster. A little faster, a little less careful, and maybe, just maybe –

“ _Shit!”_

She tripped on a rock and went tumbling forwards, nearly bringing Clayton with her. In the split second that she felt herself falling she forgot herself, and let instincts that said that falling was bad take over, trying to catch herself with her bad foot **.** Pain seared up her leg and sent her crashing to the ground anyway as she collapsed with a shriek.

Time skipped, the shooting pain overwhelming her senses and stealing her breath. When the black spots cleared from her vision she found herself lying on the ground, Clayton kneeling beside her and hovering as though he didn’t know what to do. She felt shaky and drained, and couldn’t remember the last time something had hurt this bad. Maybe the last time she got shot, and wasn’t it just so _stupid_ that a bum ankle could wipe her out this bad?

“This shouldn’t hurt so bad,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Why can’t I just fucking _walk_.”

Clayton sagged in relief at her words, then shook his head. “Ain’t like you’re not trying,” he said softly. “You’re just hurtin’ real bad, Miriam.”

She closed her eyes and tried not to cry. Clayton settled on the ground beside her and took her hand carefully into his own, cradling it like she was something fragile, like some wounded bird.

“Miriam, please,” he said, his tone still that same gentle voice, the one that would have made her feel coddled if she weren’t in so much pain. But her ankle felt like it had cracked into splinters, and the gentleness was a welcome balm. She clutched his hand back, hard enough that it had to hurt. “The others’r gonna fucking kill me if I don’t get you back in one piece. And if we ain’t careful, you’re gonna break something, if you ain’t broken it already.”

Miriam closed her eyes and exhaled, gritting her teeth and trying to keep the tears at bay. _Goddammit._ This is what she _didn’t_ want, the vulnerability, the care that was tearing her apart with it’s kindness. But she didn’t have any other choice. There was no other way off this goddamn mountain. She swallowed, and clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Then she nodded, just once, and held up her arms.

“Come on then,” she said, attempting for a dry tone that didn’t quite carry. “Carry me home, Mister Sharpe.”

He looked so relieved it was almost funny, or would have been if she hadn’t been so close to tears.

“Good. Alright, c’mere.” He shuffled closer and slid an arm under her skirts as she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, then scooped her into his arms, cradling her carefully to his chest. Then he lifted, hoisting her off the ground. The weight of her boot on her sore ankle pulled as it swayed in the air, legs hooked over his arm.

“Don’t drop me,” she muttered, holding herself stiffly in his arms as he started walking, picking a careful path across the rocky ground.

He huffed a laugh. “Don’t worry. I ain’t aimin’ to die today.”

She cracked a smile, and laid her head carefully on his shoulder. Then she closed her eyes, and finally let herself relax into the embrace, trying desperately to curtail the vulnerability threatening to choke her. Clayton wasn’t Harrison, wasn’t even close – he was her friend, her brother, her son. Harrison had been her life, her love, her everything. And now he was gone, and he was never coming back. And the warm arms around her, the surety in Clayton’s step and the ease with which he held her was close, too close.

_God, I wish you were here._

Grief whelmed in her chest, and for the first time that evening she let herself cry.

“We’ll be home soon,” Clayton said softly.

“I know,” she said, tears thick in her throat. “I know we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Miriam is harder for me to whump, but I'm really pleased with how this one turned out. I hope y'all enjoyed! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! And I'm on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi if you want!


	5. Clayton (buried alive, comfort) - Part 1 (Clayton/Matthew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where is he?” Matthew all but growled in the man's face, barely keeping himself from shifting right then and there. “What did you _do_ –“
> 
> “Oh, don’t you worry about that none,” the man said, grinning wider at Matthew’s rage. “We just put a Coffin in the ground where it belongs, that’s all.”
> 
> (In a box, in the ground, Clayton Sharpe was screaming.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Thanks to all y'all who've left kudos and comments, you're amazing!! 
> 
> Today's chapter is a two-part series! This prompt ran away from me, and ended up being over 9,000 words. So for ease of reading (and because half of it still has to be edited), I'm posting half today, half tomorrow. 
> 
> The prompts for today and tomorrow are no. 4, buried alive, and alternate prompt no. 3, comfort. It takes place in my were-bear Matthew 'verse - more of which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721386) for those curious. The only thing you need to know is that Matthew is a werebear who can shift anytime, and Clayton is his human. This is set fairly early on in the series - after the Deadwood Five know Matthew is a werebear, but before Clayton and he have built their house/the parsonage. 
> 
> Warnings for the chapter include: someone being buried alive, bugs, blood, suffocation, panic, claustrophobia, physical injury (shoulder dislocation among others), field medicine, and some vomiting. Please heed the warnings on this one, lads.

It was a lazy Friday, one where he’d been wandering the thoroughfare after a day of fixing up the church. Clayton was nowhere to be seen, but that was alright; he’d show up sooner or later. Eventually Matthew would find him at home, curled up on the sofa with a book. Or Matthew would make it to the Gem, and his partner would sidle in to sit beside him with a grin and a wink and a shot of whiskey.

Well, the wink wasn’t that likely to happen. They were quiet about their relationship, and not many knew that they’d moved in together. And besides, Clayton still wasn’t that outward with his affections, at least not in someplace quite so public. But one could always be hopeful.

Matthew watched idly as a group of men covered in dirt and stripped to their shirtsleeves strode down the thoroughfare, passing a whiskey bottle between them and laughing. His brow wrinkled when he saw the shovels slung over their shoulders, and caught a whiff of the musk that generally signified grave dirt lingering under the scent of whisky.

 _Nobody called me for a burial today_.

He wandered closer, keeping his body angled away, hoping to overhear them with his keener-than-human senses, to hear what they’d been up to. Curiosity had always been one of his fatal flaws, and something about the whole situation felt… off. He knew most of the locals, by now, and certainly knew the men who were willing to dig a grave for coin. And these men certainly weren’t them, and weren’t regulars around camp.

“- ain’t have to worry about that creepy motherfucker anymore,” one of the men laughed. They weren’t trying to be quiet, but that wasn’t unusual. People normally applauded the… untimely deaths of men that they weren’t fond of, or men who caused trouble in camp.

The man beside him snorted. “The Coffin’s finally in his coffin. I wonder if he’s dead yet.”

Matthew froze. _The Coffin. Clayton. What -_

He was turning and walking towards them before he had decided to move, fury radiating through his whole being. One of the men caught sight of him and elbowed the man beside him, grinning sharply. If anything, he looked more amused, his face carrying none of the fear that Matthew would have hoped for.

“Hey, preacher,” he said lazily, setting a hand on his pistol. The men grouped around him did the same, wide grins plastered on their faces. “Can we help you on this fine, fine day?”

“Where is he?” Matthew all but growled in his face, barely keeping himself from shifting right then and there. “What did you _do –_ “

“Oh, don’t you worry about that none,” the man said, grinning wider at Matthew’s rage. “We just put a Coffin in the ground where it belongs, that’s all.”

“Best watch yourself in that graveyard,” the man beside him smirked. “Wouldn’t want you to fall in one o’ them graves neither. It’s real nasty business.”

_They buried him alive, they buried him **alive -**_

Matthew bared his teeth and stepped forwards, clenching his fists and wishing to God he had the time to kill them. He leaned in close, close enough that the man in front of him leaned back, tensing even further, the line of his jaw growing sharp. 

“You best hope he’s still alive,” Matthew said, tone even, quiet, measured. “And you best pray you’re so far outta town when I come back that even God himself couldn’t track you down.”

The man laughed, a strong belly laugh that any other time would have been called beautiful, rich and full of life. But here, with Clayton’s life hanging at the balance, it rang hollow, sitting in Matthew’s gut like a poisoned apple.

“You don’t scare me, preacher-man,” he sneered. “And none of us ever said nothin’ about killin’ someone. We were just doin’ our rightly duty, buryin’ what needs to be buried.”

“Don’t you know, preacher? Coffins belong in the ground,” a taller man behind him smirked. “Or rottin’ in hell. Fuck, maybe both.”

They pushed past Matthew, leaving him standing in the street, shaking with fury.

_You don’t have time, Matthew. **Move.**_

And then he was running.

* * *

He ran the whole way, falling into that easy measured pace that he could keep up for miles. The urge to sprint was strong, but he held himself at bay, knowing that if he did he would exhaust himself before he could even get there. Along the way he spotted a shovel lying beside a stack of lumber and grabbed it, telling himself that he’dbring it back after, that the Lord and the owner would forgive him this theft. The weight of the shovel across his shoulder was barely noticeable, overshadowed by the panic and fear that had taken hold.

_He can’t be dead. He can’t be, Lord don’t let him be dead –_

Clayton was _his._ His friend, his companion, his _partner_ , however new the name was. He couldn’t be dead, he just _couldn’t._

* * *

(In a box, in the ground, Clayton Sharpe was screaming.)

* * *

It took half the time it usually would to make it to the cemetery, but even that amount of time felt far too long. Thoughts of shifting and running faster crossed his mind, but he needed human limbs for this, not the claws and heavy paws that his shifted form possessed. They were good for so many things, for tearing and clawing and climbing and running. But not for this, not when there was a possibility that Clayton might be digging his way out from deep in the ground, not when his claws might meet delicate human skin and do more damage than good.

He swung the shovel from his shoulders as he tore into the cemetery, scanning the ground for any signs of disturbed dirt. He spotted one, then another freshly dug grave, heart skipping in his chest. The one he _knew,_ because he’d filled it yesterday with the body of a man shot dead in the streets, Matthew’s prayers the only thing that had eased his passing.

_Please, god, let me be right._

He ran for the other one, then started to dig.

* * *

(Clayton clawed at his coffin, fingers scraped raw on the rough wood, knuckles splitting open as he hits it, again and again, trying to break his way _free_ -)

* * *

He dug frantically, praying and praying that he wasn’t too late, that he’d find Clayton alive and whole and not a suffocated corpse lying in a box with bruised and bleeding fingers. (Or worse, shot or strangled or beaten to death, without ever being given the chance to try and break his way free. They’d said he was alive, but that didn’t mean they were telling the truth, or that he would stay that way. Matthew tried not to let himself linger on the thought.)

The dirt was soft, and digging came easily. Matthew talked as he worked, saying as much as he could without losing his breath, keeping up a steady stream of reassurances and prayers and Clayton’s name. He was swearing too, promising things to God that he _knew_ he shouldn’t. But he could’t help it, couldn’t help the bargains and promises of service if _only_ Clayton was still alive. 

He wished, for a moment, that he’d thought to have one of the others sent for, so that they could have met him here and helped and made this _faster_. He was running out of time, the clock in his head ticking faster and faster. He’d tried to smell Clayton through the layers of dirt separating them, but all he could smell was the scent of dirt and bones and _death_ , none of the life that Clayton possessed, none of the sweat and spice and gun oil and that musk that was so entirely human.

_Please be alive, please._

He dug faster.

* * *

(There is a unique horror to digging your way out of your own grave. The way the dirt sucks at your body as you try to pull free, the _heaviness_ of trying to tunnel through the ground. Humans were not meant for this, weren’t meant for the suffocation, for the way the world lies heavy over you, for the fall of gravedirt into your mouth and nose and ears and clothes and dear _god_ don’t open your eyes –)

* * *

One foot, two feet, three feet deep, and his shovel hit something harder than the loose-packed dirt of the fresh grave, something that had give but didn’t _shift_. He saw a flash of pale skin and bright red blood and _dear God -_

He tossed the shovel aside and got to his knees, digging frantically with his hands until he touched skin, until he could see what he’d found. A hand, limp and cold, nails torn and bloodied, a thick ring of bruises and lacerations around the wrist.

“Fuck, fuck, Clayton? Clayton _please,_ Lord, please let him be alive –“

The hand came to life, fingers curling weakly around Matthew’s. Matthew screamed, jolting backwards at the touch, ice running down his spine. Then he swore, and kept digging, frantically scooping dirt out with his hands, trying to find purchase.

Clayton’s hand kept moving, grabbing weakly at him and pulling. Matthew swore again, fear of an entirely different sort prickling down his spine at the image it presented. But he could _finally_ smell Clayton. His scent was weak and smothered by the layers of dirt still separating them and carried the iron tang of blood along with it, but it was _there._ He was _alive_. 

_Get your shit together, Mason, get him **out.**_

He stood and grabbed Clayton’s wrist in one hand, wrapped the other around the forearm he could now touch. Then he braced himself, and heaved, pulling as hard as he could. 

The dirt shifted, breaking away, reluctant to give up it’s prize, it’s newfound resident here among the sticks and bones. But Matthew was strong, stronger than the pull of the grave. He hauled on Clayton’s arm until he felt the dirt shift beneath his feet, until he felt something _give_ , until Clayton’s head broke free from the ground in a shower of dirt.

And Clayton _screamed_ , a thin sound, choked out as he coughed and sucked in desperate lungfuls of air. Matthew stopped, suddenly registering that the limb was loose, separated at the shoulder. The scent of fear sharpened in the air.

_Oh, God._

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry I’m sorry, hold on –“

Matthew’s stomach flipped, and he dropped back to his knees, digging frantically until Clayton’s neck was free, then his shoulders. The scream sputtered to a stop as Clayton spat out a mouthful of dirt, retching onto the ground in between desperate bids for air. He started thrashing, pulling his other arm free and choking out a gasp as his movements jostled his other shoulder. 

“I’ve got you, you’re alright, _fuck_ you’re almost free –“

Matthew knew he was babbling but he could’t stop, too frantic, too terrified because even though Clayton was _alive_ and breathing he was still so close to dying and _god_ what if there was dirt in his lungs - 

“Clayton, fuck, c’mon –“

Clayton stopped screaming, head lolling forward into the dirt, his breath harsh and punctuated by coughing. He kept struggling weakly, shoving ineffectively at the ground, trying to push himself free of the restraints.

As soon as he could get his arms around Clayton’s ribcage Matthew looped his arms around his back, pressing his palms to the wings Clayton’s shoulder blades. Clayton shook under his touch, and the grit of grave dirt lay thick beneath his palms, a heavy layer on his clothing. Clayton pressed closer, wrapping his good arm around Matthew’s shoulders, pressing his dirty face into Matthew’s neck.

“Matthew,” he gasped, choking on the words. His voice was the sound of rocks grating together, all gargle and none of his usual smooth drawl. Panic tinged the words, sitting strangely on his voice. “Matty get me out get me _out_ -“

“I’ve got you,” Matthew said, just as desperately, shifting his weight to his knees and bracing himself. “Come on, _push_.”

And somehow, he did, pushing weakly with his legs while Matthew heaved, straining until he was pulling Clayton free, lifting him _out_ , out of the grave that they buried him in.

Clayton shuddered as Matthew kept lifting, clambering to his feet with Clayton clasped tight in his arms. Clayton sobbed, mouth open and gasping against Matthew’s neck, a smear of dirt from his face and mouth gritting against Matthew’s skin.

“That’s it, I’ve got you,” Matthew said, hysterically repeating the same words over and over in a desperate attempt to comfort (for himself or Clayton, he wasn’t sure). He turned and set Clayton on the edge of the grave, then tried to let go so he could climb out himself. But Clayton clung to him, refusing to let go, hands clenched tight on his coat.

“Matty,” he choked out, “please –“

Whatever he was going to say next disappeared in a coughing fit, the kind that Matthew knew from experience pulled at your lungs and stole all your air. He coughed and coughed, choking up dirt and bile, shoving himself away from Matthew enough that he could spit on the ground.

He was shaking when he finally stopped. Matthew climbed clumsily out of the hole, trying not to break contact, catching Clayton around the waist and pulling him in close as he wavered.

“That’s it, that’s it, just breathe,” Matthew murmured, smoothing a big hand up and down Clayton’s back as he struggled for air. “C’mon, love.”

He shifted, getting to his knees and dragging Clayton further away from the grave, Clayton clinging to him and trying move his legs in a way that would help. When they were clear Matthew set him down, then shifted behind him, letting Clayton sprawl against him. Clayton immediately curled onto his side, burrowing deeper into his hold. His dislocated arm dragged heavily behind him, and Matthew cursed as Clayton keened at the pull against his shoulder. 

“Shit, here -“ Matthew took hold of his arm and maneuvered it carefully around Clayton’s body, tucking it carefully against his chest. Clayton took it with his other hand, clutching it tight with white-knuckled fingers and turning his face into Matthew’s neck. Matthew pressed a kiss to his hair, ignoring the dirt coating it, and held him close.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered as Clayton shook and shook, sucking in each breath like it would be his last. “I’ve got you.”

* * *

Time slowed to a crawl as Matthew held Clayton and waited for his breathing to even out, for his shaking to stop. It didn’t, but it did slow, shifting from the violent tremors to a quiet, steady tremble as his breath slowed from the frantic, gasping thing it had been to slow and steady, carefully measured. Matthew pulled back, and smoothed Clayton’s gritty hair back from his face. Clayton turned his face up and opened grey-blue eyes surrounded by dirt-covered lashes. 

“Shit, hold on, I’ve got water, I can clean you -” Matthew said, digging in his coat for the flask of water he’d taken to carrying on hot days. He shifted Clayton back, waiting until he was sitting of his own accord before he wiped his hands off on his trousers and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He soaked it, then reached out and put his hand on the side of Clayton’s head. Clayton jerked backwards, then froze, staring at Matthew.

“I’m just going to clean your eyes,” Matthew said as gently as he could, trying to tamp down the panic that threatened to creep into his own voice. “Is that alright?”

“Okay,” Clayton croaked out. Matthew smiled reassuringly and reached for him again, slowly then wiped the dirt from his eyes.

(He never thought he’d clear away mud-encrusted eyes to let someone see, never thought he’d perform a miracle like _this_ , like stopping someone from dying. And he knows it’s not the same, nothing like giving the gift of sight where one had not existed before, but he can’t help but thank his God anyway.)

There was so much dirt. There was so _much_ , and Matthew had only a little water, so he did what he could. He cleaned the dirt from Clayton’s eyes, then his mouth, then the rest of his face. It wasn’t enough to get his skin clean, not totally, but it was enough that Matthew hoped he wouldn’t feel like he was still buried in the dirt, anymore. He eyed the blood smeared across Clayton’s forehead, and the bruises blooming on his cheek and chin, cataloguing each one. He wasn't going to forget them, and he wasn't going to forgive.

“You should rinse your mouth,” Matthew said softly when he was done. Clayton nodded and reached for the flask, going sheet-white under the smears of dirt on his face as he dropped his dislocated arm to his lap.

“Easy,” Matthew said, pressing the flask into Clayton’s shaky hand. Clayton nodded, raising the flask to his mouth and taking a drink. His hand shook hard enough to spill water against his chin, to make the metal clink against his teeth before he took it away and spat into the dirt. Matthew watched carefully as he rinsed and spat until the water came out clean. Then he drank and drank, nearly choking in his haste.

“Slow down,” Matthew murmured, one hand steadying Clayton’s on the flask. Clayton shuddered but obeyed, taking another slow pull before he handed the flask back to Matthew.

Matthew took it, then caught Clayton’s hand, squeezing it carefully. “You alright? You hurt anywhere but your shoulder?”

Clayton shook his head slowly. He opened his mouth to say something, then shoved himself to the side, vomiting out water and dirt and bile onto the hard-packed ground.

“ _Shit_.”

Matthew pulled Clayton’s hair back from his face, murmuring soothing nonsense until Clayton choked out the last of whatever had gotten into his stomach. When Clayton shoved himself upright his lips were flecked with bits of black and red, dirt mixed with blood smeared across his teeth and tongue.

“Fuck,” Clayton gasped, wiping at his mouth with a dirt-covered sleeve. Matthew frowned as more dirt smeared across his mouth, making the whole thing worse.

“Here, love, I’ve got it.” Matthew wiped his mouth with a careful hand, scooting closer so he could rub slow circles against Clayton’s back. Clayton sagged, relaxing back against him with a shuddering breath. “I’ve got you, you’re alright.”

“Put my shoulder back in,” Clayton rasped, turning to Matthew with wide, blood-shot eyes. The scent of fear still lingered, and desperation pulled at the edges of his words. “Please, I can’t do anything without it, I need to be able to fuckin’ shoot Matty, _please_ –“

Matthew frowned. “Alright,” he says slowly. “Or I could put it in a sling, wait ‘till you can see Arabella –“

“ _No_.” Clayton burst into a cough, sucking in air as he struggled to stabilize his breathing. Matthew kept rubbing slow circles on his back, and waited until he made eye contact again. “No, I can’t let ‘em get me again Matty. I fuckin’ can’t, they’ll kill me, they’ll bury me again and you won’t find me and –“

“Breathe, Clay,” Matthew said firmly, cupping Clayton’s filthy cheek in his hand. Clayton startled and broke out of his rant into another coughing fit, one that left him curled in on himself and wheezing. Matthew kept talking as soon as the hacking cough slowed, keeping his voice low and firm, as reassuring as he could. “I won’t let them take you, alright? You’re safe, I’ve got you, this ain’t gonna happen again.”

Clayton listed into his hold, tucking his head under Mathew’s chin as Matthew pulled him in close and pressed a kiss to his dirty hair.

“Please, Matty,” he rasped, pleaded, begged. Matthew’s heart ached at the sound, at the terror in his voice. “I ain’t above begging. Please.”

So Matthew did. He pressed another kiss to Clayton’s hair and shifted him around, unbuttoning his shirt and suit coat with careful fingers and tugging it free. His breath caught at the sight of Clayton’s bare shoulder, already bruising dark purple and green, the bone loose beneath his skin.

“You ready?” he asked. Clayton nodded sharply, gritting his teeth as Matthew wrapped careful hands around his arm. Then he levered it, pushed, popping the bone back into the socket as Clayton screamed through clenched teeth, setting Matthew’s teeth on edge.

(And he tried not to think about the loose fall of dirt from out of Clayton’s clothes, the beetles that fell with it, the crawl of tiny legs on flesh –)

By the time he was finished Clayton was shaking harder and barely conscious, eyes glazed and tears rolling down his cheeks. Matthew scanned his torso, noting the scrapes and bruises on his ribs, the long shallow cut that perfectly matched the tear down the side of his shirt. None of it seemed bad enough to need immediate attention, and there wasn't much Matthew could do anyway, filthy and devoid of supplies as they were. So he pulled Clayton's shirt back on, then his suit coat, then held him close and waited until he could no longer hear Clayton’s teeth clinking together from the shakes. 

“We should go back to town,” he finally said in that same soft tone. Clayton flinched, curling away from him and hunching in on himself. Matthew let him go, but kept his hand on his back, a reminder that he was there. “Should get you cleaned up, and somewhere safe.”

“Nowhere’s safe,” Clayton said, just as quiet. “They grabbed me outside the _Gem,_ Matthew. I gotta go, gotta get out of town –“

“Sweetheart,” Matthew murmured. He touched Clayton’s uninjured shoulder, then waited until those bloodshot eyes were turned towards him. “I’ll make it safe. Alright?”

“You can’t –“

“I can,” Matthew said firmly. “Darlin’, I can turn myself into a twelve-hundred pound bear. They were fucking lucky that they came for you when I wasn’t there. But if you think I can’t tear those men apart, then you need to think again.”

Clayton just stared at him, looking scared and bewildered, with a shadow of guilt looming behind his eyes. Finally he ducked his head, staring down at his hands, torn and bloody and streaked with dirt. “You shouldn’t have to get blood on your hands for me.”

Matthew gathered him into his arms again, closing his eyes at the feel of the dirt still coating Clayton head to toe. “I want to. As soon as I… as soon as I realized, I wanted to. They need to pay for what they’ve done.”

Clayton shivered, and curled in close, and said nothing.

“Come on, Clayton,” Matthew whispered. “Let’s go home. I’ll keep you safe, I swear to God, or die trying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two will be posted tomorrow!! Thanks so much for reading, hope y'all enjoyed!


	6. Clayton (buried alive, comfort) - Part 2 (Clayton/Matthew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew takes Clayton home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is part two of the buried alive fic!! I meant to post this earlier today, but got caught up in making pies, so you get it super late (by my time zone, at least). Happy Canadian Thanksgivin' to all y'all, by the by! I hope you all have a wonderful weekend full of pies, even if you're not Canadian. 
> 
> Warnings for the chapter include: references to someone being buried alive, bugs, blood, discussion of physical injury (shoulder dislocation among others), first aid/medicine, violence, gun violence, and trauma responses (dissociation in particular). Please heed the warnings on this one, lads, especially the one about bugs.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

They made it home slowly. Matthew dusted Clayton off as best he could, made a makeshift sling for his arm, then helped him to his feet and guided him down the road towards Deadwood. He wanted to carry him, to sweep him into his arms and curl him close to his chest, but when he asked if he could carry him Clayton had just shaken his head, weary and determined.

It was like leading a ghost. Clayton was barely there, eyes distant as he followed quietly behind Matthew. The only sounds he made were the harsh rasp of his breathing, the coughing he couldn’t seem to quell, and the stumble of his feet on uneven ground. Matthew kept glancing back to check on him, worried that Clayton would fall and he wouldn’t even notice. Finally he’d shifted to the side and slipped his hand into Clayton’s. A beat had passed, then another, and then Clayton’s fingers wrapped slowly around his hand. Matthew felt a small pang of relief at the sign of life, however small.

(He knew what it was like, the shock, the fear that blanketed everything. He’d never been buried alive, never felt the press of suffocating dirt and coffin enclosed around him, but he’d been hurt before. He remembered. It was hard to forget that sort of thing.)

As they passed the tiny shacks that marked the outskirts of camp **,** Clayton shrunk into Matthew’s shadow, hiding behind his bulk. The sun was setting now, long shadows and streaks of dull golden sun spilling across the ground. The streets were quiet, as quiet as they got in Deadwood, with only a few people passing them, casting curious glances as the Reverend and his gunslinger.

“Come on,” Matthew breathed, tugging Clayton closer to him. “We’re almost there.”

He’d never been happier that the Church was on the near side of town. Within minutes they were there, slipping into the sanctuary and shutting the doors behind them. Matthew led Clayton to the nearest pew and set him down, then knelt beside him. Clayton’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring off at the distant wall as he gasped and wheezed for air.

“Wait here a moment, okay?” Matthew said. Clayton didn’t respond, so Matthew cupped his cheek until he looked at Matthew, just enough to show he was listening. His cheek was gritty underneath Matthew’s palm, and Matthew forced a smile.

“I’m going to find someone to go fetch Arabella. Alright?” No response came, so Matthew leaned in close and pressed a soft kiss to Clayton’s filthy forehead. Clayton flinched, and Matthew’s heart twisted. He pulled back, then stroked his thumb along Clayton’s cheek. “Stay here, sweetheart. Okay?”

He waited a beat, and then Clayton nodded, the movement harsh and jerky. Matthew stroked his cheek again, then he stood and jogged to the doors, slipping back out and into the thoroughfare. It didn’t take long for him to spot Jem Williams, who eagerly agreed to go fetch Missus Whitlock from home or the Gem for a shiny nugget of gold. His face had lit up at the sight, and he’d given Matthew a gap-toothed smile and a salute before running off in the direction of the Gem. Matthew smiled after him, then hurried back inside.

Clayton hadn’t moved. That in and of itself was worrisome; an injured Clayton was normally a cussing, belligerent Clayton, one who was likely to try and find the safest goddamn corner he could to nurse his wounds by himself. Even since he and Matthew had moved in together to the tiny quarters above the church, he was still likely to try and duck out of medical care, claiming that he could stitch himself together just fine, thank you muchly. It was something they’d been working on, the idea that others would want to help him, take care of him, keep him safe. They’d made so much progress, but this wasn’t that. This wasn’t the relaxed sense of safety that came in their home or Arabella’s office, the roll of eyes and quirk of his mouth as Clayton passed Matthew the needle and gut to stitch his skin back together, the gritted teeth and sharp cuss as Miriam insisted he rest. No, this was something else entirely. This was the thousand-yard stare of soldiers wounded on the battlefield, of men whose minds were affected along with their bodies.

Matthew knew it well. He’d seen it many times before. But he’d hoped to never see it _here_.

(He knew what it felt like too, the loose quality of time, the flashes of scenery passing by as he ran and ran and ran – )

“Clayton,” Matthew murmured, kneeling beside him again. He brushed the pads of his fingers against the back of Clayton’s hand. “Are you there, sweetheart?”

Clayton shuddered at his touch, his long dirt-stained lashes brushing his cheeks as he closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. His breath whistled in and out of his lungs, a wheeze that made Matthew’s skin crawl. But his hand turned over, long fingers curling around Matthew’s, broken nails biting into his skin as he held on tight.

“Yeah,” he whispered, and relief trickled down Matthew’s spine at the sound of his broken voice. “Yeah, ’m here.”

* * *

Matthew took him through the church, guiding him through the aisles with his palm resting against the small of Clayton’s back, pressed against the filthy fabric of his shirt. Then he took him out the back door, and took upstairs, guiding him up the narrow staircase with gentle nudges of his hand, pressed in close behind him with one big palm resting against the small of Clayton’s back as he climbed the stairs at a snail’s pace. Clayton was clutching his dislocated arm close to his body, his good shoulder pressed against the wall of the staircase as he wavered, trying to maintain some semblance of balance as he took the step one at a time. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Somehow they made it to the top without Clayton falling, or passing out, or choking on his own bile and grave dirt.

Matthew unlocked the door as quickly as he could, then guided Clayton through their sitting room and into their tiny kitchen.

“Here, Clay,” he said, pressing Clayton down into a chair. Clayton went willingly, all but collapsing into the seat, breath coming heavier now, that same sickening wheeze. “I’ll fill up the tub, you stay, alright?”

He waited for Clayton’s nod, then lit the stove. Grabbing two buckets, he clattered down the stairs to the nearest water pump, filling them as quickly as he could. Metal bit sharply into his palms and water sloshed on his trousers and shoes as Matthew walked carefully up to the narrow staircase, shoulders set in their work. He walked through the apartments, plastering a smile on his face as Clayton flinched at the creak of the kitchen door, pressing back against the wall.

“Just me,” Matthew murmured. He set the buckets down, then stepped carefully over to Clayton and crouched in front of him, knees creaking in protest. Clayton watched him through weary blue eyes, tracking his movement as Matthew set a hand on his knee. “Let’s get you undressed, alright?”

A beat, then another, and then Clayton nodded. He started tugging jerkily at his buttons with one hand, dropping his gaze to the floor. Matthew caught his hand, rubbed the pad of his thumb over Clayton’s cracked knuckled until those blue eyes focused on him.

“Let me?” Matthew asked softly. Clayton nodded, slowly, his blue eyes studying Matthew’s face. Matthew smiled, lifted Clayton’s hand to his lips to press his lips against his mud-streaked skin. Then he set Clayton’s hand back on his knee, and started in on the buttons.

He was half-way down Clayton’s shirt and fighting to keep his face still at the fall of dirt from his clothes, when Clayton spoke.

“They buried me, Matty,” he mumbled. The hands resting on his trousers clenched, pulling the fabric taut, knuckles white under the smears of dirt. Matthew nodded and worked at a button, thick fingers pulling at it deftly. A small avalanche of dirt fell from the fabric as he moved it, and Matthew swallowed. “Buried me alive.”

“I know, love.”

“Caught me outside o’ the Gem,” Clayton rasped, “goin’ down an alley. Musta been waitin’.” He choked out a laugh. “I beat one o’ them at poker last week. He musta been pissed.”

“Sweetheart, I’m – “

Clayton coughed, hacking into his sleeve. Matthew caught sight of bright red blood speckled in among the black bits of soil that splattered the sleeve. Then he continued like nothing had happened, and like he hadn’t even heard Matthew. “Ain’t the first time I’ve had someone try and bury me, but normally they try to kill me first.”

A beetle skittered out of Clayton’s shirt and Matthew jerked, biting his lip to keep from swearing. Clayton wheezed out a creaky laugh, and a shiver ran down Matthew’s spine.

“Sorry,” he rasped, “got too many bugs in my clothes.”

Matthew looked up, but Clayton’s eyes were closed. He shook his head. “That’s alright, love. I can manage some bugs.”

He looked back at Clayton’s shirt, then at his bare head, and frowned. “Where’s your coat?” he asked, realization dawning on his face at the lack of the leather duster that was a normal part of his partner’s attire. “And your hat, you don’t have it. Do I need to go dig it… do I need to go back to the cemetery?”

Clayton wheezed out a laugh. “Nah. They took ‘em. Said I didn’t need them anymore.”

Rage filled Matthew’s chest, and before he knew it he was growling, a low steady rumble coming from deep in his chest. Clayton flinched, and he clamped his jaws shut, tamping the rage into submission.

“I’ll get them back,” he promised, resting his hand on Clayton’s and squeezing lightly. Clayton closed his eyes at the touch, his breath hitching.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clayton slurred. “Ain’t important.”

Matthew shook his head. “It is, love. It is important, alright?”

Clayton’s eyes slitted open. He studied Matthew’s face, then nodded slowly. “Okay, Matty.” 

Matthew pushed Clayton’s shirt open, fighting to keep his face still at the cloud of dirt that arose. “How’s your shoulder?” he asked as he helped Clayton maneuver out of his sleeve.

Clayton blinked at him.

“It got hurt?” Matthew prompted gently.

“Oh. Right. Don’t really feel it. Don’t really feel anythin’.” He looked at his hands, then at Matthew. “Is that bad?”

Matthew shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, love. You just had somethin’ awful happen to you. Maybe you just need time.”

Clayton looked out the window and let out a sickly laugh. “M’ body still thinks I’m in the grave.”

Matthew cupped Clayton’s jaw, fingertips brushing into his hair, and swiped his thump across one dirty cheekbone. Thin fingers wrapped around his wrist, holding his hand in place.

“You’re still here,” Matthew said softly. “You ain’t dead, and you ain’t there. You’re here, with me.”

Clayton closed his eyes, long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He nodded, a short jerk of his head, leaning into Matthew’s palm. Matthew pressed a kiss to his hair, breathing in the scent of dirt and bones and a shitty pine box. 

“Okay, Matty,” Clayton whispered. “Here, with you.”

* * *

Matthew peeled the rest of Clayton’s clothing from him, tossing it in a pile to be taken care of later. He wasn’t sure he could salvage it, or if Clayton would even want him to, but they could figure it out later. Clayton shoved himself to standing, his hurt arm hanging limply at his side, and grabbed one of the buckets of freezing cold water. 

“Hold on,” Matthew said, snagging the bucket from his hand. Clayton made a grab for it, but Matthew stayed his hand. “Darlin’, wait for the warm water. This is too cold to bathe in.”

Clayton gave him a lopsided smile. “Already said I won’t feel it, how cold it is ain’t important.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s good for you, Clay. You’re cold enough already,” Matthew said firmly, keeping his voice soft and gentle. “You need warmth.”

Clayton’s mouth twisted. He looked away, scratching at the skin on his arm. “I just…” he closed his eyes and shuddered, and Matthew watched as a beetle crawled out of his hair and down his neck. Matthew’s stomach flipped, his skin _crawling_ at the sight of it. “I need the dirt gone. Need to know I ain’t in the ground anymore.”

Matthew swallowed his bile, and nodded, and set two pot and a kettle on the stove to boil for the next round. Then he held out his hands, guided Clayton into the tub, and poured a freezing bucket of water slowly over his naked, shivering form.

The first rinse had left the tub filthy, dark brown water littered with beetles and other small critters. Matthew fought to keep the revulsion from rising, to keep his own responses at bay as he ran his fingers through Clayton’s hair, pouring cup after cup of water over him until his skin was streaked with dirty brown water but cleaner than it had been. Then he helped Clayton out of the tub, brow pinching at the blue tinge to his lips and fingernails. He wrapped him in their biggest towel and left him huddling on a kitchen chair, dripping water on the floor and staring at nothing as he shook and shook.

Matthew rinsed the tub, refilled the buckets, then did it all over again, climbing up and down their creaky staircase with bucket after bucket. A second rinse left the water nearly clear, and left Clayton shaking even harder. By then the water was boiling, and he’d rinsed the tub again, nearly running back to the well to haul more water for the bath. A warm one, one that Clayton could sink into, one that could finally warm the chill in his bones.

“Come on, love,” he said as he pulled Clayton out of the chair and led him to the steaming tub. “Let’s get you warm.”

* * *

“Can’t believe you came for me,” Clayton mumbled as he listed against the side of the tub. Matthew washed him with careful hands and a soft washcloth, combing tangles out of his hair and cleaning the rest of the dirt from his pores. “Can’t believe you dug me out.”

Matthew hummed and wiped carefully across the scrape on Clayton’s ribs. The baths had revealed so many more bruises and scrapes, all over Clayton’s arms and chest and legs. He tried to make note of each one, each sign of that revenge he needed to take.

“I’ll always come for you,” he murmured. “Always.”

* * *

A knock sounded on the door while Matthew was scrubbing Clayton’s back. Clayton flinched at the sound, and Matthew swore under his breath.

“It’s probably just Arabella,” he said hastily. “I sent for her, remember? She needs to check your lungs.”

Clayton looked confused. “Alright. You… you gonna go let her in?”

Matthew nodded slowly. “You’ll be alright for a minute?”

Clayton cracked a smile, just a small one, but enough that a knot in Matthew’s chest eased at the sight of it. “I promise I ain’t gonna drown in the minute you’re gone.”

Matthew shook his head with a smile. “You’re gonna have to let me worry for a bit, love.”

“I can live with that.” Clayton sunk deeper into the tub, rolling his head back on the edge as another knock came from the door, followed by the sound of Arabella’s voice calling for them. “Now go let her in before she breaks down the door.”

Matthew pressed a kiss to his hair, then stood and hurried to the front door, hastening to unlock the door and let Arabella.

“What happened?” she asked, shoving her heavy medical bag into Matthew’s arms and shrugging off her hat and coat. “The boy said someone was hurt, what – “

“It’s Clay,” Matthew said, clutching the bag with wet hands. “He’s in the bath. He got grabbed, by some assholes, he - “ he hesitated, then stepped closer, lowering his voice and letting some of the rage he’d been trying to keep contained spill over. “ _Jesus Christ_ , ‘Bells, they buried him alive.”

Arabella’s face went pale. “What? Is he…”

“He’s alive, I dug him out. He’d crawled half-way out himself by the time I go there though, and I… I need you to see if he’s alright. He… he doesn’t look good.”

Arabella nodded slowly. “Of course.”

Matthew led the way to the kitchen, relief washing over him at having someone else here, at knowing that Arabella would make sure Clayton was alright.

“He breathin’ okay?” Arabella asked, trailing behind him. “He got any wounds?”

Matthew shook his head. “Mainly scrapes and bruises, and his shoulder’s hurt. But he’s been wheezin’ somethin’ awful. And he coughed up blood. Is that bad?”

She hummed. “Depends. It’s most likely just from his throat gettin’ scraped raw from the shit he swallowed, and the coughin’. If he’s got dirt actually in his lungs, could be worse. We’ll have to watch him closely, the next couple of days, in case somethin’ happens.”

Matthew nodded. “Alright. I can do that.” He knocked on the doorframe, then stuck his head through the doorway to his tiny kitchen. “Clay, you alright if I bring Arabella in?”

Clayton jerked and stared at him.

“Clay?” he asked gently. “Arabella’s here to check you out, but I can have her wait ‘till you’re dressed.”

Clayton nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. “Let me get dressed?”

“Alright, love. Let me get you some clothes.”

* * *

A few minutes later found Matthew hovering behind Clayton as he slumped into the sitting room. He was white as a sheet, and had started shaking as soon as he was out of the warm water. Matthew helped him dress in clean underclothes and trousers, but Clayton shook his head at the shirt Matthew held up.

“Arabella’s just gonna make me take it off anyway,” he muttered. Matthew’s mouth pinched into a frown, but he set it aside, on top of the sweaters he’d brought along with it.

“A blanket then,” he said, grabbing the blanket he was glad he’d thought to grab and wrapping it around Clayton’s shoulders.

Clayton scowled and shrugged it off. “No, Matty. I don’t need it.”

Matthew frowned, and tugged it back on over his shoulders. “Yes, Clayton. You do, you’re shaking out of your skin.”

Clayton sighed, but pushed himself to his feet. “Fine.” He stumbled towards the sitting room, clutching the blanket around him as Matthew hovered close behind. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Good lord, Clayton,” Arabella said when she saw him shuffle into the room. She hurried across the room and helped Clayton settle on the sofa, ignoring his pitiful attempt at a glare. “Let me get check your vitals, then I can see to any injuries.”

She checked Clayton’s pupils, then his pulse, then listened to his breathing, the cool metal of her stethoscope pressed against his chest. Then she pulled aside the blanket and probed at the swollen, bruised mess that was his shoulder with careful fingers.

Matthew watched Clayton’s face the whole time, noting the discomfort on his face, the slight scowl that had formed, which was far better than the blankness from before, or the numbness Clayton had described.

“What happened to your shoulder?” Arabella said as she examined it.

Matthew cleared his throat. “My doing, I’m afraid. I dislocated it when I… when I pulled him out.”

Clayton shuddered, and Matthew’s mouth snapped shut. Arabella nodded, then moved onto the many scrapes and cuts littering Clayton’s fingers and hands. She frowned, and peered closer, bringing Clayton’s hand into the light streaming from the window.

“Fetch me a needle from my bag, will you Matty? He’s got a mess of splinters.”

Matthew frowned, looking closer, grimacing at the sight of Clayton’s hands. He looked at Clayton, who’s head was lolling against the back of the sofa. “You didn’t tell me your hands were full of splinters, Clay.”

Clayton frowned, staring up at the ceiling. When he spoke again his voice was detached and quiet. “Didn’t realize they were. Musta fucked ‘em up when I broke the coffin.”

Matthew frowned, but Arabella just nodded.

“Understandable, given what happened,” she said, taking the needle Matthew offered and tugging Clayton’s hand into a spot with better light.

Matthew swallowed and looked away as she dug a needle into Clayton’s skin. “Need me to… ah to bandage anything?”

“Sure,” Arabella said, peering up at him. “You wanna get the scrapes on his ribs and arms while I do the splinters?”

Matthew nodded, and they set to work, patching up their gunslinger. Matthew kept his hands gentle once more, swiping antiseptic across the mess of raw red scrapes across Clayton’s ribs and the many cuts and scrapes littering his arms and torso. He must’ve broken a hole in the coffin, Matthew realized, then pulled himself through. He re-evaluated his position on saving Clayton’s clothing, remembering how many tears he’d found, cut through by the unforgiving pine.

“How’s your breathing?” Arabella asked a few minutes in, as she dug out a splinter in Clayton’s forearm. Clayton grunted in response. Arabella paused and looked at him, raising an eyebrow until Clayton opened his eyes and looked at her.

“’S okay,” he rasped. “Kinda hurts.”

“Understandable, given the circumstances,” she muttered, peering back at his hand. “You tell me if it gets worse, alright?”

Clayton didn’t respond, so Matthew responded for him.

“He will,” Matthew said firmly. Clayton looked at him, then away again. Finally he nodded.

“Yeah.”

Arabella snorted and picked out another splinter. “Don’t sound so enthused, Mister Clay.”

“Sorry,” Clayton muttered.

Arabella frowned and opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, looking at Matthew.

“I think she was just teasing you, Clay,” Matthew said softly.

Clayton made eye contact, just for a brief moment, and his eyes were just as distant as they had been before. Matthew’s throat grew tight, and Clayton looked away. His arm shook almost imperceptibly under Matthew’s palm. “Oh. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” Matthew murmured, squeezing his arm gently. “You’re alright.”

* * *

It took time to clean all of Clayton's various minor wounds, then bandage each one that called for it. Matthew lost track of everything, noticing more and more cuts and bruises as they continued. His chest felt tight as he took in the bruised and battered knuckles, the swell of mottled purple bruises littered across his back and chest and face. Some of them were too clearly fingerprints, encircling Clayton’s wrist, his bicep, his throat. It made Matthew itch to bare his teeth, to bellow and claw and bite until the men who did this were _gone_. But that wasn’t what was needed, right now, so he didn’t, just swallowed his anger and focused on Clayton.

If he was in pain, Clayton gave no indication, slumped as he was against the couch with his eyes closed. By the time they’d finished digging out all the splinters and bandaging every injury they could find, it was well past dark, and they were working by lamplight. Arabella had been biting her lip for some time, and Matthew was willing to bet it was to contain the cusses that she wanted to let loose. They’d tried to keep up a steady stream of chatter, something that might draw Clayton out of the fugue he’d fallen into, but it was hard.

After he’d finished bandaging Clayton’s torso, he’d insisted that Clayton put an undershirt on, then bundled him awkwardly in blankets until only his arms were sticking out. That, at least, had gotten a response, Clayton’s face shifting into one of bemused exasperation.

“I don’t really feel cold, Matty,” he’d said. “I don’t need this many blankets.”

Matthew had grabbed another blanket and tucked it around him. “That’s not a good thing, Clay. You’re still freezing, and your lips are blue. You said you didn’t really feel anything, earlier. Has that changed?”

Clayton had opened his mouth, then frowned. “No,” he’d finally said, voice hushed. “No, not really.”

“Then more blankets it is.”

When they were done, Clayton was swathed in bandages, and had finally gained some colour in his cheeks.

“I’m going to go make some tea while you finish up,” Matthew said to Arabella as she packed the mess of supplies back into her bag. She nodded, flashing a smile.

“Maybe some food for Clay too?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Clayton shrugged, and Matthew bit back the worry.

“Alright.” He stood, leaning down to brush a kiss on Clayton’s forehead. “Be back in a bit, love.”

He walked into the kitchen, filled the kettle, and lit the stove. Then he stood at the window and waited, watching the stars blink into existence as the rage built back up in his chest. It had been there since he first ran into the men on the thoroughfare, and had grown into an inferno inside his chest that threatened to burn him alive if he didn’t do something about it.

_They tried to kill him. They tried to kill my mate._

He had been close _,_ so goddamn _close_ to losing Clayton forever. And that was unacceptable.

A floorboard creaked, and Matthew glanced behind him to see Arabella step into the kitchen, the dirty bowl of water in her hands.

“You gonna tell me what happened now?” she asked softly. “He fell asleep, we have a minute.”

The wooden counter creaked as Matthew’s grip on it tightened.

“I don’t know the whole thing,” he said lowly. “Just ran into some men in the thoroughfare, laughin’ about the Coffin bein’ in his coffin. I ran to the graveyard, dug him up, brought him home.”

“He’s lucky you overheard. Lucky you found him, too.”

Matthew laughed bitterly. “Still didn’t stop him from gettin’ hurt, from nearly _dying_.”

“No. No, it didn’t.” Arabella walked over to the counter and turned around, leaning her back against it and crossing her arms. “If you need to go, then go.”

Matthew looked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

“You think you’re the only one ready to kill?” she shook her head. “I’d come with you, but if he wakes up he’s gonna try and follow. And he ain’t fit for a fight. Not right now.”

“No, he ain’t.” Matthew felt the weight of his gun at his back, the crackle of energy in his veins, and knew that he would not miss. “Thank you, Arabella.”

She nodded. “Stay safe. I ain’t in the mood to stitch someone else up today.”

Matthew bared his teeth. “Oh, that ain’t gonna be a problem.”

Arabella raised an eyebrow, then turned to face him fully. “You can’t shift.” He bared his teeth again, so she repeated it. “Matthew, you can’t. You _can’t_ shift. Not in town.”

Matthew snarled. “I have to _kill_ them, ‘Bella. They came into my _home_ , they took my… they took Clayton, and he’s _mine._ ”

“I know,” Arabella said firmly, “which is why you can’t shift. He _needs_ you, Matthew. Needs you here, with him. You shift in the middle of the fuckin’ thoroughfare? You’re gonna get run outta town, or worse.”

Matthew snarled again, squeezing the counter until it creaked under his hands. Then he closed his eyes, took a breath, and nodded.

“Fine. Fine. I won’t shift. I promise.”

“Good. Now go kill them, alright?”

* * *

He was half-way down the thoroughfare when he heard a someone calling his name. He looked to the side, and saw Whitney hanging off the porch of the Bella Union, lit by the lamps hanging overhead, a shawl wrapped around her bare shoulders.

“Reverend,” she called, “come here a moment, will you?”

He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly and walked closer.

“You get your Mister Sharpe back in one piece?” she asked quietly when he was close enough to touch. Matthew nodded. She smiled, and it was clear she was relieved. “Good. We heard there was a spot a trouble, but you’d already run off before we could do anythin’. But I thought you might wanna know that Brittney saw some fools headin’ into the Gem after you stopped ‘em on the thoroughfare. They ain’t left yet.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Miss Whitney, have you been watching for ‘em for me?”

Whitney grinned and winked. “We’d have done more, but we thought you might want to kill ‘em yourself. You need backup?”

Matthew shook his head. “I don’t think so, Miss Whitney. Thank you, though. I appreciate it, more than you know.”

“Of course, Reverend. We’ll be here anyway, I know Kaity’s been itchin’ to try out her new shotgun.”

Matthew laughed. “Of course she has. Well, I’ll holler if I need you.”

“Please do, Reverend. Can’t wait to watch the show!”

* * *

The streets were quiet. That in and of itself was a blessing; it meant less passersby who could get caught in stray gunfire, and meant that he might be able to throw magic around a little easier it came down to it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used the gifts of the Dealer in the middle of the thoroughfare, but it was something he tried to avoid, if he could. They all did; they had no desire to be accused of witchcraft. And although they’d gained some notoriety as Deadwood’s “protectors”, none of them had any desire to test exactly how far the camp’s good will went. That was exactly the reason that Arabella had cautioned him not to shift, not to risk the chance that they might lose their home. He knew Clayton would come with him if he had to run, knew it without a shadow of a doubt, but he didn’t want to risk it.

_Been a long time since either of us had a home. I intend to keep it for us._

He was a half-dozen yards from the door of the Gem when the door swung open, laughter and music spilling out into the dusty street. Three men, one after the other, stumbled onto the porch, laughing and jostling each other in a show of high spirits. And oh, Matthew _knew_ them.

A growl rose unbidden in his throat. The man leading glanced his way and froze, making the other two nearly run into him. Matthew took in the hat he was wearing, and the coat hanging from his shoulders, the one Matthew knew so well.

_Those ain’t yours._

“Lookit here, boys,” the man crowed, pointing at Matthew. “The preacher’s back from the cemetery.”

“We was gonna come find you,” the tall man behind him, smirking nastily. “See if you needed a hand with that grave.”

"What a coincidence," Matthew drawled, hand reaching for the back of his waistband. "I was just comin' to find you, too."

The first man, the one who was wearing an all too familiar hat and coat, reached for his gun. But Matthew was faster. Of course he was; the other man was human, carried no extra strength in his limbs or speed in his step. But Matthew? Matthew was _not._

He pulled his pistol, for once not restraining himself, letting the strength of the bear flood his limbs as he fired once, twice, three times, hitting the first man dead through the centre of his forehead. The second shot went into the doorframe of the Gem, but the third clipped another man in the shoulder. The first man, the dead one, crumpled to the ground on Al Swearengen’s front porch in a spray of blood. Screams and shouts erupted on the thoroughfare, and the two men left standing _scattered_.

_That’s one._

The second man, the tall one, darted off the porch, pistol now in hand. He fired just as Matthew pivoted on his heel to follow, firing again. A line of heat licked across Matthew’s ribs as the other man crumpled, choking on a bullet that landed in his throat.

_That’s two. Two bullets left, Matthew._

He was dodging before he heard the crack of the third man’s gun, throwing himself to the side as he twisted to bring the man into sight. A bullet thudded into the dirt, and Matthew reacted instinctively, firing his last two bullets into the man backing away down the thoroughfare. The man clutched at his stomach and staggered back from the impact of the shots, staring at Matthew with confusion and fear on his face as his gun arm fell to his side. He took one step backwards, then a second, and then crumpled to the ground.

_And that’s three._

Matthew kept moving, ducking close to a barrel and reloading his pistol with steady hands. He waited a beat, then another, and let the scent of blood and gunpowder fill his lungs. Then he took a breath, steadied his shoulders, and stepped out from behind the barrel, gun leveled at the last man, the one still twitching on the ground, whimpering through the last stages of death. Matthew stalked towards him,closer, closer, until he was leaning over the man, his boot pressing the hand still holding the man’s gun into the dirt.

“Y’all must be new around here,” Matthew said gravely, as the man blinked up at him with scared green eyes. “Ain’t you heard that it ain’t wise to hurt my people?”

The man sputtered, blood trickling from the edges of his mouth. “You’re just a preacher,” he gasped. “You ain't supposed to fight back.”

“Nah, son,” Matthew smiled, a slow, sure thing. “I ain't no pacifist. My job is to shepherd the good people of this town. And ain’t it just the job of the shepherd to kill the wolves and slaughter those who would harm his flock?”

“He’s just a fuckin’ faggot,” the man gurgled. “A goddamn outlaw. He ain't important, and he ain't no goddamn sheep.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Matthew drawled. “Ain’t you heard? That man you buried today? That "faggot"?" He leaned in close, pressed the barrel of his gun against the man's forehead. "He’s _mine_.”

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

Matthew took his time going to each body, closing their eyes and folding their hands and praying the prayers for the dead. A crowd had gathered at the edges of the street, but Matthew paid them no mind, just as he ignored the people peering out from the Gem at the aftermath of the duel. None of them approached, just watched, waited. A few men and women in rags lingered closer, waiting at the edges of the light spilling from the Gem as Matthew divested each man of their guns but not their gold. Finally he went to the one with the coat, and the hat, and stripped him of the things he had stolen. 

Spurs clinked behind him as he stood, wiping his brow. The scent of gun oil and chewing tobacco met his nose, and Matthew smiled.

“Hello, Sheriff,” he said, turning around. Sheriff Bullock nodded and raised an eyebrow at the bodies on the ground.

“Hello, Reverend. See you had yourself a spot of trouble.”

“That I did. It gonna be a problem?”

Sheriff Bullock shook his head and spat. “Way I hear tell, you was comin’ for a drink when these men attacked you.”

“That I was,” Matthew said. He folded Clayton’s coat over his arm, and watched as Sheriff Bullock raised an eyebrow at the sight. “Think my thirst has been sated, though.”

Sheriff Bullock huffed out a laugh. “I’d hope so.” He clapped Matthew on the shoulder, then toed at one of the bodies. “Damn, when’d you get to be such a good shot?”

Matthew shook his head and smiled. “It was just luck, Sheriff. Just luck.”

* * *

Arabella was curled up on the sofa with a book when Matthew returned. She waited while he checked on Clayton, then pulled him into the kitchen, glaring until he’d sighed and let her see the graze on his side.

“It’s done?” she asked as she wound a bandage around his ribs.

“Yes,” Matthew replied.

“Good.”

* * *

When Arabella was safely on her way back home, Matthew locked the doors, then walked back to Clayton. He was still asleep on the sofa, slumped in a way that looked terribly uncomfortable. He was pale, and bruised to shit, and his breath was a rattling wheeze that did nothing to ease the worry still clutching at Matthew’s chest. But he was _here_ , he was _alive_ , and he’d be alright. And that was good enough, for now. It had to be.

Matthew leaned over the sofa and slid an arm behind Clayton’s back, then one under his knees. He pulled him close to his chest, then lifted him up and into his arms, bearing the weight of him with ease. Clayton shifted in his sleep, turning his face into Matthew’s neck and murmuring something quiet before he settled deeper into Matthew’s arms.

“Shh,” Matthew whispered, carrying him to bed, safe in Matthew’s arms. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed the end of this one! Ah, werebear Matty and Clayton, I do love putting them through awful things (if only so I can write that sweet sweet comfort after the hurt). 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 And I'm on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi if you want!


	7. Arabella ("where did everybody go?", abandonment, grief)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She should have known, after Cynthia left for Deadwood with a laugh and a wave and barely a backward glance. Everyone leaves, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Today's chapter fills the prompts for day no. 8 ("where did everybody go?" and "abandonment"), and day no. 19 ("grief"). 
> 
> Chapter warnings include: Grief, depression, mentions of in-canon major character death, and episode four spoilers. This fic is canon-compliant in regards to Clayton’s death. Be prepared for all the sadness in this one, lads.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last few chapters, y'all are the best!

Aly leaves first; of course he does. That’s what they expect, after Clayton… after Clayton.

(She supposes that Clayton is the first to go, with his eyes closing and his last breath drawn right before their very eyes, but that doesn’t feel the same. It isn’t voluntary, not like with the others. The others _choose_ to go, choose to leave and walk away and –

There was no choice, with Clayton. Sometimes she wonders if he would have stayed, if things would have been different if he’d only lived. But that is not what happens, so she stops wondering.)

Aly leaves, riding away to cash in a bounty for a man who shouldn’t have died, and Arabella isn’t surprised. It’s almost a relief, knowing that she won’t have to see him around town anymore, totally unrepentant for the life he’d taken. Part of it, she knows, is the relief of knowing that she won’t have to see the anger and grief in Miriam’s eyes whenever she spots him, or endure the coldness that fills her own heart.

(Her rage burns like ice.)

Things go on as they always did, after he leaves. Swearengen calls on them for work every once in a while, and Arabella continues to settle into her life with Eugene, her life with Miriam and Matthew.

(And she has a brief moment, a hope that maybe she could form a family here, maybe she could be * _happy_ * here –

But it all burns away. Good things always do.)

* * *

Matthew is next. _That_ is a surprise, one that feels sickeningly like betrayal. He barely waits a month and a half before leaving town in the middle of the night, taking all the gold he’s amassed to “fix the church.” No repairs have ever been made, although they’d been planning to buy the lumber and nails for weeks. Miriam is frantic when they first noticed him missing (and Arabella would be lying if she said she isn’t too) until they find the letters addressed to them in his former living quarters behind the church.

“I’m sorry, but I am not a good man,” the letters says. “Please don’t look for me.”

They find a bounty poster three days later. Murderer, it says. Deserter. Con man.

(Arabella’s sorrow hardens to rage, adding to the ice growing and growing inside her. _We would have protected you_ , she wants to scream, _we wouldn’t have let you become another body in the streets, you goddamn coward -_ )

They don’t look for him.

* * *

Miriam lasts six months. It’s enough time for Arabella to fall into a kinship with her so deep and so strong that it’s almost, _almost_ like having a sister again. Miriam is strong and sweet and kind, so much kinder than Arabella is. But Miriam is also grieving, for her husband and her friends and all the possibility that Deadwood held, scattered to the winds like ash. And being here is just a reminder of all she’s lost; Arabella can see it in her face every time they pass the spot where Clayton bled out, or the closed and still half-burnt doors of the Church.

Miriam’s grief is not like Arabella’s. Arabella’s grief sits in her chest, brittle and sharp, the sorrow freezing into anger that would cut anyone who comes too close. (Anyone but Miriam, that is.) No, Miriam’s sorrow is like a pool of deep water, with waves liable to drown her if she stays in it too long.

Arabella knows that Miriam needs to leave. That doesn’t make it any easier.

(She keeps hoping and hoping and hoping, that maybe Miriam would take her with her, maybe if she loves her enough then Arabella wouldn’t have to _stay_ \- )

Miriam leaves without saying goodbye, and it nearly tears Arabella in two.

(She leaves a letter, and it takes everything Arabella has not to burn it before she reads it. “I’m sorry, dear heart,” the letter says. “I’m so sorry, but I knew you would beg to come with me, and I can’t say no. Not to you, not for that. But I can’t take you with me. I need to be alone, at least for a while.”

What is written between the lines is this: “You remind me of them. And that, dear one, is simply unbearable.”)

* * *

It feels like even the anger is gone, frozen into something brittle and hollow, liable to shatter into a million pieces at even the lightest touch. She should have known better than to hope that anyone would stay. Everyone left, eventually; first was Cynthia, with a laugh and a wave and barely a backward glance, leaving her hollow, leaving her alone. And now all of them; gone, leaving her behind in this shitty little town.

( _If they’d loved me enough_ , she thinks. _If I was better, less angry, more whole. Maybe then they would have stayed.)_

And she can leave, but where would she go? Leaving won't make her less empty.

“You ain’t been out much lately,” Eugene says one evening in his awkward, hesitant tone. “Is uh, is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Arabella says, her voice lacking its usual bite. She looks out the window, at the empty lands behind their house. “Yes, everything is fine.”

(She’s never been so alone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! Poor Arabella, she's just so got so much to work with for emotional stuff like this. 
> 
> Come find me on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it!


	8. Matthew (trail of blood, stiches)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should have been an easy job. That was what Matthew was telling himself, at least, as he picked his way through the streets of Deadwood, one hand clutched to his stomach, the other leaving a smear of blood on the filthy wooden wall he was propped against. It should have been easy, and yet here he was, bleeding in at least three different places, and barely able to stand.
> 
> _Fucking Swearengen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Today's chapter was prompted by the wonderful afearsomecritter, who had requested "trail of blood and Matthew, after the two hoopleheads who threaten him in-canon attack him later". This isn't with the hoopleheads, because I'd kind of already worked with a similar scenario in chapter 1, but it's still Matthew and trail of blood! 
> 
> The prompts included in this chapter are no. 10 (trail of blood), and alt. prompt no. 4 (stitches). 
> 
> Chapter warnings include: blood, injuries, first aid/medical stuff (specifically stitches and non-graphic wound cleaning), mentions of off-camera violence.

It should have been an easy job. That was what Matthew was telling himself, at least, as he picked his way through the streets of Deadwood, one hand clutched to his stomach, the other leaving a smear of blood on the filthy wooden wall he was propped against. It should have been easy, and yet here he was, bleeding in at least three different places, and barely able to stand.

 _Fucking Swearengen_.

He’d called Matthew into his office alone, asked him to go and check in with one of his boys who lived outside of camp, one who’d been unusually quiet the last few weeks. Why he couldn’t have asked one of his other men to do the task, Matthew wasn’t sure. He hadn’t asked either, had simply assumed that it was another of those ‘quiet’ sorts of jobs, the ones that meant Al hired them instead for absurd amounts of gold. The ones that needed someone who wouldn’t have ties to his usual gang, or the ones that benefited from their… unusual skillset.

So Matthew had said yes. He’d said yes, ( _like a goddamn fool)_ , and gone off on his lonesome to find the man he was looking for and get an update for Al. The others were off doing… honestly he didn’t even remember what, couldn’t focus enough to comb through his brain and try and find the information. But they weren’t _here_ , or at least weren’t able to come with him.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? That he’d tried to do a goddamn job on his own, something that he’d thought would be easy, simple even.

_You oughta know better, Matthew. You oughta, you oughta…_

Thinking was hard, his thoughts running thick and sticky as molasses. That was maybe, just maybe, a bad sign. He wondered if Arabella was home yet, or if he’d find someone in the Doc’s office. Maybe he could stitch his own wounds, but he wasn't sure. Blood loss made for shaky hands, after all.

 _And shaky hands meant…_ he couldn’t remember what shaky hands meant.

The thing was. The boys he’d gone to check up on hadn’t been the problem. Or at least, they weren’t the one that cut him up and left him bloody. No, that would be the critter he’d found, the disc-shaped thing with legs and mandibles like knives, that stabbed and sliced with a startling ferocity. He’d found it lurking in the back of their tent, and had barely managed to slay it after a particularly lucky visit with the Dealer.

The luck had not held out.

He’d gambled again and tried to heal himself, but that had only made it worse. A shitty deal and a shittier bet had left him in a stupor, and when he came out of it the sun was nearly setting and his head was shockingly light from the blood loss.

Swearengen’s man had been dead, and so had the two other men he’d found at their camp, but that wasn’t really his problem anymore. At least, not yet. Maybe it would be later, after he informed Swearengen that his men were dead and not even buried, and that he had no fucking idea what had killed them. He’d tried to haul the body of the creature onto his horse, but Stella was having no part of it, and had shied each time he tried to come near her.

(Nervous thing, not used to the blood and gore yet.)

Finally he’d given up, too tired and sore (and bloody, so bloody) to keep trying. He’d tied a strip of fabric he'd torn a shirt on the boy's laundry line around the worst of his wounds, and rode for home. But riding was hard, when you were fighting to stay conscious, and then he’d – he honestly didn’t know exactly _what_ he’d ridden by, but something spooked Stella, enough that he’d been thrown a half-mile outside of town. He’d blacked out when he hit the ground, and when he’d woken up the sun had dipped lower in the sky, and Stella was gone. But he’d woken up, so he dragged himself to his feet and pushed for home.

So here he was, trying to make it home in one piece, leaving a trail of blood dripping down the street behind him. The streets were unusually quiet this evening, and he couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, it meant fewer people to witness him stumbling through the streets. On the other hand, if he collapsed now, it most likely meant that there would be no one around to see him fall. And that, that would be bad.

_If a man falls in the streets of Deadwood, and no one is around to hear him, does he make a sound?_

“C’mon, Matthew,” he mumbled, forcing his leaden feet to keep moving. “Don’t give up now, you fucking – “

“Reverend? What’re you doin’ out here all – oh Lord, is that _blood_?”

Matthew blinked and there was a man standing in front of him. He was wringing his hands, and his face looked decidedly pale, eyes zeroed in on the splash of blood on Matthew’s torso. Matthew warped his face into a smile, and hoped it wasn’t a grimace.

 _Johnny._

“Evenin’, son,” Matthew rasped. He shuffled on, bloody palm sliding against the side of the dusty building beside him. Blood welled up between the fingers clapped to his stomach, dripping down to splatter on his shoes and leaving a trail behind him on the street.

 _Blood stains’ll mar the leather, Mason_.

Johnny slipped closer, hovering nervously by his elbow as Matthew moved down the street at a snail’s pace. “Reverend, what – what happened? You’re bleedin’ somethin’ awful, oh Lordy, Mister Swearengen wouldn’t want me to leave you if you was bleedin’ out. Should I go get Dan? I’m – I’m gonna go get Dan.”

“I’m fine,” Matthew said (rather unconvincingly). “Just dandy.”

Johnny shook his head, still staring wide-eyed at all the blood. “Beggin’ your pardon, Rev’rend, but you don’t _look_ fine. You sure I shouldn’t get Dan? Or at least take you to the Doc’s? I think that Mister Swearengen would kill me if I left you’s here and you died.”

Matthew wheezed out a laugh. “Would he now?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

Matthew slumped against the building and looked at Johnny. He was hard to focus on, all fuzzy at the edges and distant. 

“Alright,” he said through lips that were rapidly growing numb, “take me to the Doc’s, Johnny.”

Johnny nodded rapidly, looking relieved at the suggestion. “Sure thing, Reverend Mason sir.” He stepped forward and took Matthew’s arm. The next thing Matthew knew they were stumbling down the road, Johnny underneath one of his arms, pulling Matthew along insistently. Black spots flitted across Matthew’s vision, and he couldn’t feel his hands or his feet.

He didn’t know exactly how Johnny got him to the Doc’s, but he did. In what felt like simultaneously a minute and an hour, Johnny was hauling him through the door of what had once been Doc Farnum’s office and pushing him up against the surgical table.

“Come on, Reverend,” Johnny said, panting and pushing at Matthew as he slumped back onto the table. “I can’t get you up there, you gotta help me –“

Matthew planted his hands on the table, trying to find purchase with the slick blood coating his palms. He pushed, Johnny heaved, and somehow between the two of them Matthew ended up on the table, flat on his back, legs hanging over the side. Hands grabbed his calves and pulled, and then his whole body was being spun around, the room spinning and spinning with him. Johnny appeared overhead briefly, pale and scared looking, then disappeared.

The door slammed shut, and Matthew was alone. He had one last thought before the spinning grew into blackness, unconsciousness overtaking him.

_Don’t leave me, please…_

* * *

Hands were tugging at his clothing, and someone was cussing fit to make a sailor blush. Another voice stammered out apologies, while someone else shushed them. Matthew blinked open his eyes to see long blond hair piled high on someone’s head, the downward curve of a prettily painted mouth.

“Joanie,” he croaked, trying to move and get her attention, but his arms were too heavy, cement blocks lying on the table. 

Joanie looked at him and smiled. She wiped the back of one hand across her cheek, brushing aside a stray lock of hair. Her hand left a smear of blood on her face, bright and wet and nearly the same shade as her lipstick. 

“Hey there, preacher,” she said. Her voice was tight, worried, trying to stay calm. Matthew frowned, and tried to move his arms again, trying to sit up and see what was wrong.

_Who’s bleeding?_

As soon as he moved, the voices all started talking again, yelling and cursing as hands held him down at the shoulders, yet another set of palms pressing against his chest and arms.

Joanie’s face was suddenly closer, and her voice shifted, becoming firm and commanding. “Don’t move, preacher. Okay? I need you to stay still.”

Matthew blinked, then stopped moving, sagging back against the table.

“There’s blood on yer face,” he slurred up at Joanie, frowning heavier. “Who’s hurt?”

Joanie smiled. “You are, sugar. I need you to stay still while we stitch you up. Can you manage that?”

_Oh. Right._

Matthew nodded slowly. He supposed that explained why his everything hurt, except for the parts that he couldn’t feel at all, and why his limbs felt like leaden weights.

“Alright,” he croaked. Joanie smiled, then glanced up as someone called her name. She nodded, then spoke to someone across the room.

“Brittney, your hands are clean, will you come up here and keep the Reverend calm? Everybody else, come hold him down.”

A moment later Brittney’s face appeared, hovering over him. He tried to smile back, but then hands like iron bands clamped down on his legs, his arms, his hips. He tensed, ready to try and fight them off, when Brittney shook her head and shushed him.

“Hey, preacher. Just relax, alright?” she said. “Remember, you gotta stay still. We gotta clean the wounds, but you’re okay, you’ll be –“

Her next words disappeared as fire poured into the wound on his side. Matthew jerked away, trying to move from the pain but people were _holding_ him and _shouting_ and –

“ _Reverend!”_ Brittney’s shout over his head drew his attention back to her. Two hands cupped his cheeks, tilting his head until he was looking at her properly. The lick of pain in his side slowed, just a bit, and he forced his limbs still. The scent of whiskey wafted over the table.

“You need to stay still,” Brittney said firmly. She looked scared, and that more than anything made Matthew strain to pay attention, to keep his eyes on her. “We can’t hold you down, you’re too strong. You’re going to hurt someone if you don’t stay still.”

_Oh. Shit._

“’M sorry,” he slurred, holding himself as still as he could. He gripped the sides of the table with his hands until the sharp edges bit into his fingers. “Didn’t mean t’ hurt anyone.”

“I know,” Brittney said with a small smile. “Stay still, okay?”

He nodded, and Brittney smiled. She looked across the table and nodded, and then her eyes were back on Matthew, holding him in her gaze as the fire started again.

“You’re alright, preacher, you’re doin’ so good –“

Matthew closed his eyes, focused on the hands on his face and the feel of the table beneath his hands, and breathed.

* * *

Cleaning the wounds took longer than it should have, and by the time it was done Matthew was shaking on the table and biting his lip to keep from yelling. Brittney hadn’t left, just kept her hands on his face and her voice in his ear, telling him to keep still, that he was doing good.

“They’re all done,” she said when the cold liquid had finally stopped running over his chest, his stomach, anywhere that the critter had sliced him open. “Joanie and Kaity just gotta sew you up, okay?”

“Okay,” Matthew mumbled back. He didn’t let himself relax, too afraid that he’d fall back into the place where he would try and fight their hands at the first point of pain. It wasn’t long before he felt hands on him, then the pinch of a needle, and the tug of gut as Joanie pulled his skin back together.

“What happened, Reverend?” Brittney asked. He forced his attention onto her and away from the sickening feel of the needle through his skin. This wasn’t the first time he’d been stitched together, not by a long shot, but he never could stop the crawling up and down his spine every time it happened.

“A critter,” Matthew slurred. “Big one. With knives.”

The response was slow to come. “Oh,” Brittney said. “Alright. You find this… critter… by yourself?”

Matthew hummed in agreement. Another set of hands touched his side, then the needle bit harder. Matthew barely kept himself from jolting away as a voice muttered “sorry, sorry.”

“Reverend?” Brittney called his attention back to her face. He forced his eyes open and looked at her. “You fight this thing all by your lonesome?”

Matthew swallowed, then nodded. “Everyone’s outta town.”

“Oh, right,” Brittney said with a frown. “Miss Miriam said they were gonna be gone.”

“Good thing Johnny found us, then, Reverend,” Joanie said, flicking a smile up at him.

Matthew frowned. “Johnny got you? But you ain’t…”

( _You ain’t working for Al Swearengen_ , he wanted to say. _You ain’t made an investment in us_.)

“Why’re you doin’ this?” Matthew slurred instead, confusion still colouring his tone. He didn’t understand why they would go to the trouble of stitching him up; they weren’t his employer, and while they were his people by default of being citizens of Deadwood and part of his flock, he wasn’t _theirs_. They owed him neither allegiance nor care, no matter how much he liked them.

“The good people of Deadwood ain’t about to let you die, Reverend,” Kaity said with a sharp smile before Joanie could speak. Matthew blinked, and then the needle tugged again, and his almost-smile got broken by teeth gritted against the pain.

“Besides,” Brittney said. She grinned when Matthew looked back up at her. “We kinda like you.”

* * *

The stitches felt like they took forever, or no time at all. Matthew watched Brittney, and listened to her talk, and before he knew it someone was wiping his torso clean and pressing bandages to his cuts, then pulling him up to wind gauze carefully around his ribs. He was surprised to find all five of the ladies from the Bella Union there, along with Johnny, sitting in the corner and looking nauseous.

“You can come stay with us until your friends are back,” Joanie said, passing the gauze to Kaity at his back while Brittney and Celine held him stead. Whitney watched from beside the door, rifle in hand. “Alright, Reverend?”

“You could take me to the church,” Matthew slurred, trying to understand (and trying to keep from blacking out, more blood than he should have lost splattered across the floor and the street). “I’d be alright?”

Joanie smiled. “Sorry, Reverend. If your friends returns and finds you dead from bed-rot, I don’t think they’d let us live to tell the tale.”

“You’re stuck with us,” Brittney said with a bright smile. “Sorry, preacher.”

Matthew shook his head, then stopped as the world greyed around the edges. He waited a beat, then another, then blinked through grey-speckled vision at her. “Don’t be sorry,” he murmured. “Thank you. For being here.”

“Of course,” Joanie said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “You’re _our_ preacher, Matthew. We ain’t lettin’ you go, not yet. Alright?”

Matthew nodded, a lump growing in his throat. _  
_

“Alright.”

_Maybe I'm more theirs than I thought.  
_

* * *

Somehow the six of them managed to walk him down the street to the Bella Union, then haul him upstairs and onto someone's bed. He tried to catch Johnny’s hand before he could slip away after setting Matthew down, but his hands were slow and Johnny was quick. He blinked, and someone had stripped his bloody coat they’d slung over his shoulders off of him. He blinked again, and he was lying in bed, voices chattering overhead as someone took off his boots.

“Joanie?” he asked. She appeared over him, still with that goddamn smear of blood on her cheek.

“Yeah, Reverend?”

“Will you thank Johnny for me?”

She smiled, and squeezed his hand. He hadn’t even noticed her touch him.

“Sure thing, sugar. But you can tell him yourself in a few days.”

Matthew swallowed, nodded. Joanie pulled a blanket over him, then patted his shoulder.

“Sleep, preacher. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Matthew relaxed. “You will?”

Joanie’s smile softened. “Yeah, preacher. Don’t you worry. We ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

 _Ain’t I lucky_ , Matthew thought as he drifted off to sleep, the sound of Brittney and Joanie’s voices filling his ears, _t_ _o have friends such as these._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the Bella Union ladies and Johnny is so much fun, y'all. I adore them, and don't remember to write them into fics as often as I'd like. Also, the 'critter' Matthew fights is based on one of the scrael from the Kingkiller Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss, but like smaller and easier to kill. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 
> 
> I am on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


	9. Aloysius (broken trust, survivor's guilt, found family) (Aloysius/Matthew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He was a good man,” Arabella says fiercely when he’s done trying to explain.
> 
> Aly nods, his throat tight. “He was,” he said. “I… I don’t know what would’ve happened, if I hadn’t been changed like that. But I wish it could’ve gone differently.”
> 
> Miriam looks away. They carry so much grief between them, these women. Arabella’s grief for her sister is a chasm that has been deepened by Clayton’s death; Miriam’s is a volcano, once simmering but no longer still, fury and sorrow pouring out of her in waves.
> 
> “He told me,” Miriam says in a voice that is both soft and harsh. “That he had never killed a man who didn’t try to kill him first.”
> 
> Aly feels the guilt bloom in his chest, heavier than before.
> 
> “I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it.
> 
> She doesn’t respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy folks! 
> 
> Quick word of appreciation to all y'all for reading, and everyone who left kudos and comments!! Y'all are wonderful <3
> 
> Today's chapter focuses on Aly, and fills the prompts for days no. 12 (broken trust), no. 19 (survivor’s guilt), and alt prompt no. 7 (found family). That last one could probably fit for a bunch of these, buuut it felt pertinent to today's fic. Many thanks to the wonderful sondering_on for her help with this chapter!
> 
> Chapter warnings: guilt, grief, canonical major character death (Clayton is dead in this one), mentions of gun violence. This is a sad one, folks.

Amos Kinsley is dead. Aloysius Fogg sleeps, and he wakes, and he goes about his business, heart settled and sure. He stays in town, drinks and fucks and sleeps the sleep of the just while he prepares to travel to Jack County. He’ll leave, eventually; it’s not like he’s in any hurry, and maybe if he stays around for a while then he’ll make more gold. It’s rare, to find someone who pays as well as Swearengen does for his jobs. And although Aloysius Fogg has no desires (at least not now, not for these six days in which he has been robbed of his emotions), he understands the need for money, just as he understands that there are things he likes, even if he does not remember what liking things feels like. So he stays, and although he notices the glares from his former party as they see him around town, he does not care.

Until six days pass, and suddenly he does, he _does_ care, he cares more than he thinks he should and more than he lets on. He knows what he did. And although he doesn’t entirely think what he did was wrong (justice is justice, after all, and he doesn’t carry the knowledge that Amos Kinsley was innocent; that is reserved for you, dear reader, and while you and I shall not forget that fact, it is hard for Aloysius Fogg to remember something he never knew), he recognizes that it hurt them, that it ruined the friendship (or at least camaraderie) they’d started to build. That it killed a man who to him, at least, had been kind, and had done good.

(he regrets not having a chance to ask him why, to try and form his own opinions before he let justice take the lead)

The day that he wakes up (for even if he wasn’t sleeping, he was, or that’s how it felt, everything that made him _him_ buried beneath the surface. And that, more than anything, was the most terrifying part; being himself, wholly and truly, was an important part of his freedom. One that he hadn’t even known was missing until he woke up with the terrifying knowledge that he could disappear), he goes to the church, something complicated building in his chest, and tries to make amends.

(he hasn’t been inside a church in years, not since –

_it was burning and he heard singing or screaming and he couldn’t tell which -_

not since.)

Matthew welcomes him in with a guarded look and a hand that never strays too far from the gun Aly now knows sits tucked into the back of his trousers. But he lets him in, and so Aly goes, following him towards the front of the church. Matthew sits on a pew and listens while Aly stutters out an explanation, an apology, a plea for understanding.

He knows better than to ask for forgiveness. Matthew gives it anyway, with a wry twist to his mouth and a clap on the shoulder.

“I wouldn’t be much of a preacher if I didn’t believe in the possibility of redemption,” he says softly. “There can be no erasing our wrongs – but we can do our best to amend them.” Matthew looks at his hands, then back at Aly. “The Bible says that our sins are washed away by the blood of the lamb. But I never quite felt like that meant I was absolved from trying to be a better man.”

Aly swallows, and nods. “Thank you.”

Matthew just smiles. “I ain’t the one you should be thankin’, son. He’s the one who gives you grace, not I.”

Aly shakes his head. “Sorry, preacher, but I ain’t the prayin’ type. Not anymore. Thank Him for me, will you?”

(he hasn’t prayed in years and he’s not about to now. if god didn’t bother to answer back then, why should he now?)

“I can do that,” Matthew says, his smile flashing into something more open, more genuine than Aly’s seen before. Then he stands up, and motions for Aly to follow, and takes him to the Gem for a drink.

* * *

It doesn’t go that easily with Arabella or Miriam. They watch with hard eyes as Matthew lets him into Doc Cochran’s old office, which they’ve apparently made their headquarters in the week he’s been absent.

“I told them what you said yesterday,” Matthew explains. “They had some questions.”

Arabella takes the lead, firing off question after question like he’s on trial. And maybe he is, with a more biased jury than most. Miriam watches and listens with furious tears streaming down her cheeks.

“He was a good man,” she says fiercely when he’s done.

Aly nods, his throat tight. “He was,” he said. “I… I don’t know what would’ve happened, if I hadn’t been changed like that. But I wish it could’ve gone differently.”

Miriam looks away. They carry so much grief between them, these women. Arabella’s grief for her sister is a chasm that has been deepened by Clayton’s death; Miriam’s is a volcano, once simmering but no longer still, fury and sorrow pouring out of her in waves.

“He told me,” Miriam says in a voice that is both soft and harsh. “That he had never killed a man who didn’t try to kill him first.”

Aly feels the guilt bloom in his chest, heavier than before.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it.

She doesn’t respond.

* * *

They keep working jobs together, after that, keeping hunting demons and fighting monsters and doing what they can to keep the camp safe. And the tension eases as the grief lessens, as tears for a man they’d only known two days start to slow. The grief doesn’t heal, not exactly, but it becomes less potent, less liable to strangle their small group and send them cascading apart.

(he doesn’t use magic again. no one comments on it, but he does notice a carefulness with how arabella and matthew call on the dealer, a hesitancy that wasn’t there before. miriam doesn’t call on the dealer at all, but that’s nothing new.

they know the cost, now. they will be careful.)

Eventually Arabella looks at him one evening as they’re drinking at the Gem and nursing their wounds.

“It could have been any of us,” she says. “A backlash like that – it could happen to anyone.”

The others still, caught aback by her words. It’s true, though.

“You weren’t, though,” Aly says carefully. “It was me.”

She makes a frustrated sound, then gestures with her drink in hand. “I’m trying to say that it wasn’t your fault,” she says. “Or at least not entirely. You pulled the trigger, sure, but it wasn’t _you_.”

Aly swallows, and nods. Miriam leaves the table.

* * *

The worst part of the after isn’t the guilt, or the way that Miriam’s eyes are still tight when she looks at him. It’s not the sleepless nights, which have only gotten worse, one more set of screams to mix with the others.

It’s the fear.

Miriam no longer trusts him, and it’s plain as day to anyone who’s watching. She never turns her back, always keeps a hand on her rifle when he’s got his hand near his gun. It takes him a long time to realize that it’s not fear for her, or for Arabella; it’s fear for _Matthew_.

Matthew, who has admitted that he’s a deserter. Matthew, who Aly is smart enough to know may well have a bounty on his head. Matthew, who could be next.

(she doesn’t know that he’s already considering giving it up entirely, never seeking another bounty so long as he lives. it’s a living, and there are men who deserve it; but how can he know, how can he be sure?

he doesn’t tell them.)

The realization that she thinks he’d hurt a preacher, that he’d willingly hurt his _friend_ hits like a knife to the heart. That she doesn’t trust him, doesn’t see that he won’t let himself be lost like that again, won’t risk making another choice when he’s not himself. That she doesn’t see how much he cares for Matthew, now.

(soft glances and slow sips of whiskey, a bead of sweat rolling down matthew’s temple, the bulk of his shoulder as it bumps against aly’s, the quick smile and the crinkle at the edges of his eyes)

The idea that he would hurt him _now_ –

* * *

“I know you don’t trust me,” he says to her one crisp fall morning, as they’re walking towards the church. Arabella and Matthew have strolled ahead, and for whatever reason she’s stayed back with him.

(who is he kidding, he knows why. can’t let him out of eyesight, lest he gun the reverend down in the street.)

(does she not remember how even with clayton, he fought with as much honour as a duel can have? does she not think better of him?)

“I don’t,” she responds softly.

“I won’t hurt him,” Aly says, just as soft, feigning at some intimacy they do not have. “He’s – important to me.”

Miriam looks at him and raises an eyebrow. “But what if you aren’t you anymore, Aloysius? What then?”

(and that is the crux of it all. if it can happen once, it can happen again and _god_ –

and when it comes down to it, when he lays his cards on the table and bears his soul –

when he thinks about his life, and if going to the dealer was the only way to survive and if it happened again –

he’s still not sure he can trust himself.)

Matthew looks back at them, face breaking into a broad grin as he catches Aly’s eye. He winks, and Aly feels sick to his stomach.

(what if, what if, what if my hand kills him too -)

* * *

He wonders if he should leave, if he should walk away and not take the risk. But in the end he is a selfish man, and a coward; so he does not leave. He twines his life closer and closer with Matthew’s, lets Matthew fill his soul until he feels alive again.

And it’s good. It is.

But Miriam never lets him forget; and he never lets himself forget, either.

(this isn’t a foundation that can be repaired, isn’t something that can be fixed. trust cannot be built on nothing.)

The guilt, the shame, the grief over something he cannot fix doesn’t fill his life, but it lingers in a tiny corner of his heart. (It’s not alone there, in this place where his regrets sit.) He’s careful, _so_ careful, but he cannot help but worry that it won’t be enough, that someday he’ll slip. He knows, at least, that Miriam will be there if he does; she has a bullet with his name on it.

But for now, he lets Matthew twine their hands together, press a kiss to his temple, and tries to remember what it is like to be whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a little bit of AlyMatthew to soften the blow of all the guilt, eh?
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. I am on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi if you feel like it!


	10. Amos (branded, struggling) (Clayton/Matthew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amos is a scrappy young man, barely more than a boy, when it happens. He’s been on the run for six months, and he’s been learning first-hand all the harshness of the world that he has not yet learned at home.
> 
> He tries to find work, but it’s hard to when you have no roots, and harder still when you’re dodging a bounty. So he takes to stealing; just enough that no one will notice, just enough to get by.
> 
> And it works, for a time. Until the day that it doesn’t.
> 
> (And isn’t that just always how it goes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to afearsomecritter, who requested branding and either the shifter au or werebear Matthew. I chose the shifter au, because it felt far too perfect. This takes place prior to my shifter au [honey don't feed it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151736). You don't need to have read that one to understand this - all you need to know is that Clayton is a coyote shifter with black fur, and Matthew (who appears later) is a wolf shifter. This takes place shortly after Amos gets accused of murder and goes on the run. 
> 
> The prompts covered in this chapter are no. 14 (branding) and no. 11 (struggling). 
> 
> Warnings include: graphic injury - branding, violence, violence by police (sheriffs), discriminatory attitudes towards shifters, and implied past child abuse. There might be more but I can't think of them, please let me know if I need to add any. Please heed the graphic injury one folks.

Amos is a scrappy young man, barely more than a boy, when it happens. He’s been on the run for six months, and he’s been learning first-hand all the harshness of the world that he has not yet learned at home.

(And he’d learned so much, then, so much that he had been surprised that there had been any cruelty he had yet to experience. But for all that his father was cruel, his father was only one man. And Amos had met many men since, cruel men, whose wells of hatred ran deeper, and who are more destructive than a hurricane when brought together with likeminded purpose and anger.)

He tries to find work, but it’s hard to when you have no roots, and harder still when you’re dodging a bounty. So he takes to stealing; just enough that no one will notice, just enough to get by.

And it works, for a time. Until the day that it doesn’t.

(And isn’t that just always how it goes.)

* * *

His luck holds out until a sunny afternoon in fall. He’s in a tiny town, one just big enough for a blacksmith and a sheriff and a church of their own. It reminds him of home more than he would like it to.

The General Store is small, but they have coats, and sacks of flour and tins of milk. Winter is coming, and he hasn’t eaten properly in days. He’s wondering if he can sneak away with a coat when he sees someone who gives him pause. A man, dressed in fancier clothes than Amos has ever seen in his own tiny town. He looks like a real gentleman, proper and wealthy.

Amos thinks of Josh Barnes back home, and how his father owns the General Store, and how hard they work to make ends meet. Then he looks at the gentleman, takes in the fine silk around his neck and the sneer on his face as he walks the dusty town, and makes an easy choice.

He turns, and wanders forwards, wide-eyed and taking in the sights of the tiny main street, meandering until he’s right in the path of the fine gentleman. The gentleman, not paying any mind to the scrap of a boy half his size, doesn’t notice Amos until he’s slamming into him, sending Amos sprawling in the dirt with the man’s wallet tucked up his sleeve. The man scowled at him, but Amos was already scrambling away and spitting apologies.

The man brushes him off, and he’s half-way down the street when he hears a shout behind him.

“You – you fucking little _thief_! Someone _catch_ him –“

He’s running before he even hears the end of it, bolting down the road and ducking behind a horse. There’s a hand reaching for him and he’s too _slow_ , and it’s on his collar and yanking him to a stop and he’s choking on the fabric bunched around his throat and –

_If they catch me and they see my poster I’m a dead man._

He panics and shifts, twisting out of his skin and into his fur, scrambling out of his threadbare clothing and bolting for the nearest alleyway. The wallet and the scattered coins in his pockets are forgotten, an acceptable loss if it means he avoids the noose for one more day. Maybe he can escape, maybe they won’t catch him.

Maybe.

But shifting makes it worse, makes the fear stronger and the world more overwhelming as he darts down the street. It makes the people worse, too, as they react with the fear he’s heard of but been lucky enough to avoid. He hears a scream, then another shout, and another, and one clearer above the rest.

“He’s a fucking _shifter_!”

He dodges one hand and twists right into the reach of another. A thick hand, heavy and mean, snags in the scruff of his fur and pulls him off his feet, snarling and clawing and snapping. They don’t let go, they don’t _fucking_ let _go_ –

There are more hands now, grasping and bruising and cruel. He’s scrambling, clawing at the hands and arms that grab at him. He sinks his teeth into someone’s hand and refuses to let go, feels the rush of hot blood filling his mouth as someone shouts. Someone cuffs him, hard, but he just holds on tighter as the world whines in and out of focus. Then there’s fingers digging into his jaws, forcing them open and holding so tight it hurts, fingers invading into his mouth. He tastes sweat and dirt and foulness, and then the hands are shifting, clamping his mouth shut. A big hand wraps around his muzzle, grinds his teeth together as someone calls for rope. He’s under the big man’s arm, twisted to the side with his feet caught in someone else’s hands. He sees a glimpse of rope and struggles harder, yipping and whining as fear thickens in his throat.

(The fear is so much stronger, when he’s on four legs.)

The man holding him shakes him, hard, and then rope is being fastened around his neck, tight enough to choke. He thrashes, until the big man holds him tighter, yanks Amos’s head against his chest so he can’t move at all. He still can’t breathe, and he’s _frantic_ now, panicking and if _this_ is how he dies –

“Not so tight, Carl, we ain’t tryin’ a kill him,” the big man mutters. “Not yet at least.”

The rope loosens, just enough that he can breathe, and Amos sags as air floods his lungs. Then more rope winds around his muzzle, and he panics anew, trying and trying to break free. The big man lets go of his muzzle, then cuffs him again, hard enough that he sees stars. He drops Amos when the knots are complete, then kicks him, digging a boot into his fragile canid ribs. Amos tries to skitter to his feet, yelping through the muzzle and jumping away.

Then the man pulls, and Amos understands why a leash and a muzzle are the worst thing in the world, for his kind. He wants to never feel it again, the humiliation and the shame of being dragged down the street by the rope around his neck, the bonds pinching and pulling at his fur and the delicate skin on his muzzle. It doesn’t matter how hard he thrashes, the man is _strong_ , far stronger than his twenty-five pounds of fur and bone and not much else. Someone else kicks him, laughing as he yelps and tries to dance out of the way, as he’s yanked off his feet and dragged through the dirt, choking as the rope pulls tight around his throat. Someone spits on him. Someone else starts hollering for the sheriff.

The town isn’t big, and it only takes a minute to haul him in front of the sheriff’s office. A crowd has formed around him, shouting men and scowling women and jeering children. The rich man is there, a sneer on his face and his hand on his pistol. Amos is shaking, tail tucked between his legs, hackles raised and teeth bared. His ears have been pinned flat since he shifted, and he knows how easy he is to read. He can’t even fake being brave, like this.

“We can’t do his hand,” the big man says, “fucking shifter. Them paws are damn small.”

The sheriff arrives, all clinking spurs and the scent of gun oil and liquor. Amos shies from him and a boot catches his flank, pushes another yelp from his mouth.

“We got ourselves a thief,” the big man laughs as he yanks on the rope, presenting Amos like he’s a prize. “Tried to steal from Mister Pembroke.”

“Of course it’d be a fucking coyote,” the sheriff mutters. “They ain’t nothin’ but thieves.”

He crouches and grabs the rope, reeling Amos in until he can grab the make-shift collar, ignoring Amos’ pitiful attempts to hold his ground. It’s so much worse than any tug of war Amos played as a pup, steadily being pulled to the one person he wishes he could stay farthest from. Finally the sheriff is close enough to grab onto the rope with thick fingers. He gives Amos a hard shake, one that rattles his teeth and hurts his neck.

“You gonna shift back, boy?” the sheriff barks. Amos snarls through the muzzle and twists, trying frantically to get away, but it doesn’t make a difference. He can’t bite, and he can’t get away, even if he twists and pulls until he’s choking. But he knows this would be so much worse if he were a human, pink-skinned and naked, vulnerable and scared. Words won’t save him now.

He doesn’t shift back.

“Coward,” someone in the crowd mutters, “won’t fucking take it like a man.”

The sheriff scowls at Amos and shakes him again. When Amos still doesn’t shift, just remains the cowering, bristling coyote, the sheriff curses and cuffs him, sending him sprawling into the dirt. “Go get Jakob,” he orders the deputy standing beside him, as he stands to tower over the coyote. “Tell him to bring the brand. If he ain’t gonna shift back then we may as well do it now, no sense in waiting.”

Amos goes cold, freezing where he lies, pressed flat against the ground where the sheriff threw him. He knew there were townships that did this, that branded thieves, but he hadn’t thought -

“I could ask him to make it bigger,” his deputy suggests, stepping closer and pressing a heavy boot to Amos’ flank. Amos snarls and tries to squirm out from under it, but the asshole just presses harder, keeps him pinned in place. “Brand the fucker right here, so anyone who sees him knows what he is.”

The sheriff hums and nods. “Yeah, see if he’s got anything that’ll work. We could try for the paw, but I think that’ll be a bit harder to do.”

The deputy laughs. “Hell, we can do both.”

“That we could, that we could.” As the deputy leaves, the sheriff looks to the rich man, who’s still sneering down at Amos. “You get your things back, Mister Pembroke?”

Mister Pembroke nods. “Thank you, Sheriff, I surely did. And many thanks to the good folks of this town who came to my aid so quickly.”

“Only the best for you,” the Sheriff says with a smile. Amos wonders how a rich man gained the love of a town, to the extent that they would stop a robbery like this. Maybe they’re in his pockets.

 _Or maybe they just hate shifters that much._

The crowd waits with vicious anticipation. A few people disperse, mothers with young children and the like, but the rest remain, pressed in close and looming. Amos has never felt smaller.

He stops struggling as time stretches on while they wait. It’s pointless, gaining him nothing but an increasingly sore neck and ever increasing panic that he knows isn’t serving him well. And besides, struggling too hard gains him either a cuff from the sheriff, or a kick from the crowd as he ventures too close to the tight ring surrounding them.

Finally the deputy returns alone.

“He’s gettin’ things ready over at his shop,” he says. “Said we should bring him over there in about a half an hour, give him time to rig something up. His shop is better though, that way he can keep the iron hot.”

The sheriff nods. He looks down at Amos, then back at the crowd. “We got a bit of time, folks. Why don’t y’all come to the smithy at noon, and we’ll have a show for ya.”

* * *

Waiting is torture. Amos’ panic doesn’t ebb, just continues to grow as the anticipation sickens him. He keeps trying to draw back into himself, to that place deep inside where even his pa couldn’t reach him, but it’s too hard in this form. Everything is bright, and loud, and overwhelming.

The crowd disperses, somewhat, scattering to various porches and stores in clumps, to whisper and point and stare. After a few minutes in conversation with his deputy, the sheriff disappears into his offices with Mister Pembroke, saying something about paperwork and a statement. The deputy sits, and lets Amos cower at the end of his rope as the seconds tick by.

And then the time comes, and the sheriff and Mister Pembroke come outside, beckoning for the deputy to bring him. Amos struggles (of course he does, how could he not), digging in his claws and locking his muscles and pulling for all he is worth. Not that it matters; he is small, and they are large, and have all the power here.

They drag him to the blacksmiths, where Amos can smell fire and sweat and iron. The crowd follows, hungry for violence, for justice. The blacksmith, when he comes out, is short and broad and bearded, his face passive towards whatever will take place here. He knows his place; he knows what he has to do.

“Ready, Jakob?”

The blacksmith nods, and then disappears back into his shop. When he emerges, he’s holding a brand, the end twisted into the shape of a ‘t’, the metal red and so hot that the air warps around it. Amos shrinks best he can against the muzzle and the rope pulled taught.

The sheriff nods to his deputy, and then to the big man, and they converge on him like vultures after a kill. Someone grabs him by the scruff of his neck, twisting him to the ground even as he snarls and tries to move away. Then he’s on the ground and the hands are pinning him to the dirt floor, heavy on his neck and shoulders. Another pair pulls his front legs away from his body, another his back legs, splaying him on splaying him on his side and baring his flank. They feel heavy and cruel and _wrong_ , none of the soft touches to his fur he’s used to from his mother, the gentle petting he hasn’t felt since he went on the run. Amos snarls and bares his teeth best he can in the muzzle, thrashing and pulling to get the hands _off_ , to twist his way free.

They just pin him harder, laughing and swearing at his pitiful attempts to escape.

“Thinks he’s so tough, huh,” the big man laughs. “Best watch those teeth, Jim.”

The deputy, Jim, curses and pins his neck harder, his big hand grabbing huge chunks of Amos’ fur and twisting until he yelps and falls still.

“Wiley fucker,” Jim snarls. “Stop moving, you fucking asshole.”

“You think it’s fine to steal from hard-workin’ people, good people?” the Sheriff asks. “Well, this is what happens when you get caught, son.”

He smells the singe of burning fur before he feels the pain, acrid and thick in his nose, cloying and heavy and _wrong_. He’s seen a branding before, seen cows pressed with hot iron until the imprint is forever left on their hide. He’s seen it, and he’s smelled it, but he never thought it would happen to him.

And then the pain hits, and he loses all track of time. He’s sure that he’s screaming, loud and high and shrill, a cry that pierces the ears of every human around. His flank is _burning_ , white hot fire licking up and down his leg and twisting up his back, worse than he’d thought possible. He’s been shot before, remembers the line of fire left by the bullet across his bicep, the wet spill of blood that followed. This, though? This feels like he’s dying, like he’s being torn apart, like his leg is being ripped asunder.

(For a moment, he wishes they had killed him instead.)

It doesn’t last long. Or at least, later he will assume as such, that it didn’t last long, that it didn’t take much time to singe away his fur and sear the skin. What he does not know is that although it is a quick process, that they keep the brand pressed against his skin far longer than is needed, marking the punishment in his skin.

The brand will heal ugly, and they’re okay with that. It’s not like it matters to them; the intent will be clear, the meaning obvious for any who see, and that’s good enough.

Amos is shaking when the brand is finally removed from his skin, still straining against their hands and crying out his pain to the world. His screams subside to whimpers as he twitches against the ground and tries to breath, barely aware of the world around him.

(He never thought anything would hurt as bad as silver, but this is worse, this is so much worse.)

Words filter in through the haze around his brain. One man is muttering about piss, while another laughs at his pain. The crowd is quiet, murmurs breaking out here and there. (It’s smaller than it was; at the screams of pain, some of the women and children and men who have no desire to cause or watch pain leave; some don’t, either because they enjoy it, or because they see the look on Mister Pembroke’s face at the ones who do.)

“Fucker pissed everywhere,” one of the men holding him mutters, hands a vice around Amos’ legs. “Fucking disgusting.”

“Jakob, can you do his paw too?” the Sheriff is asking from his spot over Amos’ head. “That way people will see his hand and know he ain’t nothin’ but a thief.”

Amos tries to move, but when he pulls at his hind leg it makes everything dissolve, makes his world narrow to the pain that’s bigger than anything should be. When things start making sense again there’s a hand on his paw, and an accented voice explaining something.

“… a good possibility that it will not heal how you want it, Sheriff. His paw, see? Is not like a human hand, is longer, pointier. Toes are not quite like fingers. I can brand him, sure, but is no guarantee that it will be a clear mark when he is human again.”

The sheriff hums. “What about higher up on his leg? Would it be on his wrist?”

“Perhaps. Who can say, without testing it. Would be better if he would shift back.”

The sheriff snorts. “Think we’re past that point, Jakob. If he were gonna shift back he would’ve by now.”

Jakob hesitates, then speaks again. “It may not be the best idea, branding his leg. Is too thin, see?” The hand on his paw shifts higher up his leg, pinching at the thin skin covering his bones. “It needs more fat to hold the brand well.”

“Do it anyway,” a pompous voice says from high overhead. Amos blinks open bleary eyes to see Mister Pembroke lean in, pinching his nose at the smell. “He needs to learn, and people need to know.”

Amos whines, struggling again at the hands that hold him, the fear that never quite left flooding back even stronger at their conversation. His pitiful attempts to break free do nothing but make the men curse and press him harder into the dirt, their hands heavy enough to bruise.

(He never wants another set of hands on his fur, never never _never -_ )

The sheriff cuffs him, hard enough that time skips again. And then Jakob is back, hot iron in hand. A heavy hand envelops his paw, holding it firm, front right leg outstretched from the rest of his body. He sees a glimpse of a red hot brand, smells the stench of burning fur, and loses himself to the pain.

(He screams, and screams, and screams. “It sounds too human,” someone mutters, turning their face away. No one comments on the irony of this.)

The world goes watery for a while, loose and hazy in a way that he knows instinctively is bad. Everything hurts, the pain in his haunch and his foreleg blotting out his senses to anything else. There’s shouting, and laughter, and the sounds of people walking. He’s being dragged through the streets, dirt and rocks catching at his coat and ribs, building bruises upon bruises.

Then he’s lying in the shade, still tangled up in ropes and wracked with pain, shaking and shaking and shaking apart.

“Tie him up,” someone is saying. “The mail should be in tomorrow, I wanna make sure there ain’t no bounty on his scrawny ass before we set him loose.”

“A kid like him?” someone else says incredulously. “C’mon, there ain’t no way he’s got a bounty, he’s just a fuckin runaway.”

“You never know,” the first voice says. “And I ain’t missin’ out on a bounty because he don’t look like a criminal.”

“Should we bring him inside? Tie him in the jail?”

The first voice, the one that Amos now recognizes as the sheriff, scoffs. “Smellin’ like piss and burnt fur? Do _you_ wanna clean that outta the cell?” There’s a muttered “no,” then the sheriff continues. “Look at him, he ain’t goin' nowhere. And no one in town is stupid enough to help a shifter thief.”

A hand grabs his muzzle, and Amos blinks open bleary blue eyes to see the scowling face of the sheriff.

“I’ll set you free tomorrow, boy,” he rasps. “Don’t fucking try anything.”

(Amos knows that by tomorrow, if the mail is in, that he will be a dead man walking. He cannot wait.)

And then he is gone, and Amos is left with his wounds and his pain, trying to make sense of what has happened. He tries, but he can’t; he only knows that if he survives this, he’ll be scarred for life.

(It would have been better if he had died.)

* * *

It’s dark when Amos rouses to thin fingers touching his fur and tugging at the rope around his neck. He startles, snarling and pulling away before he freezes as the pain steals his breath away.

It _burns_ , and _God_ he didn’t know it could be this bad.

“Shhh,” a voice whispers. Amos focuses on the person hovering over him, sees the tear-streaked face of a young woman. “I’m letting you go,” she breathes. “This ain’t right.”

He stops whimpering, clamps his jaws tight and tries to stay still. There’s a flash of a knife in the lamplight, and he can’t help but shy away, a fearful whine forcing its way from his throat. She croons, low and soothing, then slips the knife under the rope, sawing frantically away at it. He catches a light scent of something feline under her skin, some carried wildness, and that more than anything convinces him to be still.

“Shhh, shhh, you’re ok,” she whispers. “Fuck, come _on_ –“

The rope snaps, and Amos is struggling to move, instincts kicking in and telling him to run as she tries to untangle it from around his neck and head. Then finally it’s _gone_ and he’s _free_. He lurches to his feet, but white hot pain steals his vision and makes the world spin. He forces himself to stumble a few steps away from her even through the dizzying, nauseating pain, limping out of her range and trying not to yelp. He can’t let someone inside the fucking Sheriff’s office know what’s happening, he can’t, it would mean death for them both.

The woman shushes him again, then holds out a small satchel with a trembling hand.

“Here,” she whispers. “I picked up your clothes when no one was lookin’. Your gun, too.”

Amos stares at her, ears flat to his skull and tail between his legs, not understanding what she’s saying. He doesn’t know what this is, this kindness that may well have saved his life. She sets it on the ground, then shuffles backwards, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders.

“Take it,” she whispered. “And then run, they’ll kill you if they find you.”

He creeps forwards, limping unsteadily until he can nose the satchel, keeping one wary eye on the woman crouched a few feet away. The oilcloth satchel smells of metal and gun oil, his own filthy human scent, and the yeast of fresh baked bread. He picks it up with his teeth, then limpes closer to the woman. She stills, then cautiously holds out a hand. 

Trembling, he drops the satchel where she can’t reach and limps closer still, nosing her hand and licking her knuckles, just once. She wipes the tears from her face with the back of one hand, then gives him a watery smile.

“Go on,” she whispers. “Git.”

And so he does.

* * *

He makes it two miles out of town before he collapses from the pain. His hind leg is screaming, and his foreleg will barely take any weight. Everything hurts, and even the normal, simple task of walking feels like agony. He lies where he falls, long enough to catch his breath and still the grinding in his brain, then he starts looking for shelter.

He gets lucky. He finds a hole, an old one, with the stale scent of a coyote long gone. It ain’t big, but neither is he. He crawls inside, dragging his satchel, then curls up into a ball. He knows he needs to tend his wounds, but he knows he can’t deal with the pain it would bring.

(Not yet, not when he’s shaking and shaking, when he can still smell the cooked flesh and singed hair, the shiny dark red burn stamped into his skin not once but twice.)

Amos will survive. It will hurt, and it will take time for the wounds to heal beyond the crippling things they are now, but this will not kill him.

(Not yet, at least.)

He falls asleep to the soft scent of rain as it sweeps over the Texan landscape.

* * *

Tomorrow, the sheriff will find that the rope and the coyote shifter with the black fur are gone, any trace that may have shown where the thief ran dissolved in the rain that so rarely graced their skies. When the mail comes, it carries with it a wanted poster for a whip-thin boy who killed a man in Jack County, a boy who meets the description of the thief. He will take it to Mister Pembroke, and to the big man who first caught Amos around the collar, and they will confirm that this is their thief. And Amos, while he gets away this time, will gain a new section on his bounty poster.

“Wanted Dead or Alive: Amos Kinsley, Shifter.”

* * *

Years later, so many he loses count, he will meet a tall preacher, with kind words and soft hands, and a smile that makes him fall in love. The preacher will feed him, and offer him shelter, and tend his wounds.

(He breaks his promise, then, to never let another set of hands land on his fur. He does not regret it, and the preacher’s hands are only full of love and care.)

The first time he sees Clayton naked, Matthew won’t notice the shiny burn that spans his hip and thigh, or the second one that stretches across his wrist. (Or if he does, he doesn’t ask.) It’s weeks later, when they’re lying together on a blanket under the stars, curled around each other for comfort, enjoying the feel of human skin pressed together before they shift to their fur for warmth. Matthew will run his hand along the length of Clayton’s ribs and down over his hip as Clayton falls asleep. The hand will pause, feeling out the line of his scar, and Clayton will wake in an instant.

“What’s this?” Matthew will ask as he pulls the blanket off of them and tilts Clayton’s hip towards their small fire, trying to see it better.

“Nothing,” Clayton will mutter, heart racing. He’ll grab Matthew’s hand and pull it back to his ribs, away from the mark. “It ain’t important.”

“Clay –“ Matthew will see his face, and stop, something softening in his gaze. He’ll look again, taking in the crooked shape of the letter, the way the scar is still brilliant red after all these years, the fear and challenge in Clayton’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew will murmur. He’ll press a kiss to Clayton’s forehead, slide his arm around his waist, and won’t ask again.

But later, later Clayton will hold out his wrist so that Matthew can see the warped brand pressed into his skin. He’ll mumble that he got caught for thieving, once, early on, when he was young and dumb and desperate. Then he will shift, nosing Matthew’s hand to the letter ‘t’ that’s barely visible through the heavy black fur of his haunch, despite the fringe of white fur that surrounds it. Matthew will run his fingers through Clayton’s fur, and Clayton will let him feel the scar that was meant to define him. It doesn’t, and they both know that, but the intent still hurts.

“I'm sorry,” Matthew will murmur again, carding his hand through Clayton’s fur. “I, I saw the white fur, but I didn’t realize… you didn’t deserve this.”

Clayton will let Matthew pull him close, bury his nose in Clayton’s fur and whisper love and apologies. Then Matthew will shift too, and they’ll curl together like two puzzle pieces, meant to fit in each other’s hollow spaces.

“It’s okay,” Clayton will wish he could say. But it isn’t, so he doesn’t, just lets Matthew hold him and give him the comfort he needed so long ago, the love that he wishes his seventeen year old self had received.

Better late than never, or so they say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah I love these lads so much. Clayton deserves to get his comfort, even if it's like 14 years later. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading y'all! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. I am also on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/) if you feel like sayin' hi!


	11. Miriam ("breathe in, breathe out", forced mutism)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heave, a brief moment of weightlessness, and the smack of her back against the water; these are the last things Miriam feels before she is drowned.
> 
> (she never learned how to swim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Sorry today's is up a bit late, was having some trouble with it.
> 
> Huge thanks to the anon who left me a request on tumblr for this one. They had requested someone thinking of the Deadwood Five as a coven of witches/warlocks, and either #13, 14, with #7. I took it and warped it a little bit (sorry anon!), so the focus is on Miriam being accused of witchcraft, and what follows after (with some bonus side Clayton whump). 
> 
> The prompts used were #13 ("breathe in, breathe out") and #24 (forced mutism, which I chose to interpret as being gagged and unable to speak. Not exactly the same, I know, buuut it's what I got). Thanks so much to whoever sent in the prompt!! This was a _very_ fun idea to play with, and it grew into a bit of a monster chapter. Thanks as well to afearsomecritter for all their help with the chapter! 
> 
> Chapter warnings include: drowning, specifically drowning in a murky and deep lake, graphic depictions of injuries, blood, injury to a child (from an accident, nothing abuse related), violence, religious bullshit of the "witchcraft is evil" variety, mentions of Miriam's deceased husband. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

There is a weightlessness to being in water, or so they say. Buoyancy, the body floating naturally with only a little effort.

“Come on, Miriam,” Harrison would laugh whenever they stopped their wagon by a lake or river. “Come swim with me.”

“You know I can’t,” she’d say, biting her lip and shedding her clothes as he ran whooping into the deepest part of the pond. She’d wade in, staying where she could touch, where it was safe. But he’d inevitably disappear, and her heart would skip with fear, the momentary ‘what it'. Then he’d pop up, closer to where she was splashing tentatively deeper, and drag her under with a laugh, her shriek disappearing as they dunked underwater.

“You -" she’d smack him when they re-emerged, him laughing and her sputtering. He’d kiss her, and pull her out of the water enough that she felt safe, his arms solid around her as they went deeper and deeper.

“Don’t worry,” he'd say with a grin and a wink. “I ain’t about to let you drown.”

She’d cling to his shoulders, and try and kick her feet, and let him carry her. It was good, it was lovely, it was one of so many precious moments in their life together.

But that was so long ago, and so far away. And she is here, and now, with ropes bound around her wrists and the voice of Clayton screaming at her from the shore, and the jeers and shouts of the men and women of the tiny town they’d found themselves in.

A heave, a brief moment of weightlessness, and the smack of her back against the water; these are the last things she feels before she is drowned.

(she never learned how to swim)

* * *

Here is the irony to it all: she has never cast magic before today. It was never really her style, anyway; she preferred things she could touch with her hands, tangible things, not the shadow and dust of magic. And she was wary of the faceless void they called the Dealer, with his too fast hands and his too sharp teeth. Anything that spoke into your mind and asked for barters of your soul were something to be avoided, in her not so humble opinion. Her wariness had only grown after the whole debacle with Aloysius and the backlash that stole him away for a week, and nearly stole Clayton away too; anything that left someone hollow like that couldn’t be from God, and any gift that came with a price that high was one to be rejected.

(“They say don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” she’d mused once to Clayton, “but this gift is liable to bite, and I’d rather not take it if that’s the case.”

He’d nodded and continued cleaning his guns. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Miss Miriam.”)

But still, sometimes the risk was worth the reward; and although it took a year and a day, she’d finally found the reason to risk it, to call up the magic that lay simmering under her veins and lay down a wager.

They were in a little town on the way to Rapid City, she and Clayton, on a job for Swearengen. Or, part of a job, rather; one that had them scattered to different towns and cities looking for information. Her and Clayton had come out here, where she could sweet-talk their target out of what they needed, and Clayton could provide the muscle if things turned south. Ever since they’d returned from a job to find Matthew with half his blood gone, patched up and resting in the Bella Union, they’d been reluctant to let each other go out alone.

“The buddy system works for a reason,” Arabella had said cheerfully, ignoring Clayton and Aly’s sour looks.

“Yeah, for schoolchildren,” Aly muttered. Clayton snorted, then yelped as Arabella smacked both of them upside the head.

“Better the buddy system than bleeding out all alone,” she snapped. They both settled, nodding reluctantly, and so their new system had been set.

So here they were, so many months later, she and Clayton in this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Not that that was much different than Deadwood, but it _felt_ different. More rural, backwater, none of the saloons and brothels that she’s used to. They draw attention, here, in a way that they don’t really in Deadwood. 

(that might not be true. they do draw attention in deadwood, certainly more than some folks. people around camp are keenly aware of those more dangerous than them. and over the past year, well, they’ve earned a reputation)

The attention has made Clayton tetchy, hiding under his hat and snarling more than usual when he deigns to speak at all. Miriam tries to do all the talking, tries to make it smoother, easier, bringing all her charm to the forefront. That draws attention too, but there’s no winning here. At least this way they look at _her_ face, not his, so distinctive to match the bounty poster she knows he’s always worried will have been seen by someone who can do something about it.

It’s late in the afternoon, and they’re walking the main street together, her hand tucked in his arm in a show of propriety. She’s watching, always watching, and so she sees it when the child darts under the wheels of a moving wagon. There is a crunch, a thud, a scream, then another, and another.

She’s running before she can even feel herself move.

The child’s mother is holding him and screaming, and there’s blood, so much blood, and she is many things but she is not a mother, she cannot begin to _imagine_ holding your own child as they die –

(and then she thinks of clayton with blood trickling between his fingers as he tries to stop his own bleeding, and arabella pale and shaking apart from the fever set in her bones, and remembers the fear that clutched her chest when she saw them. and suddenly she knows, she _knows_ what it feels like, to nearly lose a child)

The hard ground bites into her knees as she crashes down beside the mother and child, but she hardly feels it, sees only the blood and the flash of bright white bone and he’s so pale, _god_ he’s so pale. Miriam touches his arm, feels the thud of footsteps through the ground and hears the screams of the mother for help and then she does the unthinkable.

She closes her eyes, drops away into that place where the Dealer lives, and prays for aid from a god that isn’t hers.

* * *

“Interesting,” the Dealer says as she draws a seat out at his table, the expansive blackness stretching beyond them in a way that makes her dizzy if she looks too long. The being cocks its faceless head to the side and shuffles the cards with it’s too-long fingers, quicker than she can follow. “To think, that this is what draws you to my table.”

“I need to make a deal,” she says through numb lips, her chest hollow. Blood coats her fingertips, warm and sticky and red, shining in the lamplight. It isn’t hers.

The Dealer grins, too many razor sharp teeth in it’s broken maw. “I know you do,” it says, “let’s make a deal, then, Miss Miriam.” It doesn’t have to tell her that a life hangs at a balance, that a child will die if she loses this bet, that she risks her soul for someone she doesn’t even _know_. She knows, with crystalline clarity.

She grips the edge of the table, feels the bite of the sharp wood under her palms, and watches the cards as they fall. One, two, three. She peels up the edges of the cards, looks at her hand, then exchanges one. They both ignore the bloody fingerprint she leaves on the card.

She looks at her hand, then at the Dealer, suddenly smiling hard enough to hurt.

_Full house._

“I win.”

* * *

She opens her eyes to the bright skies and dusty streets and warm blood beneath her fingers. Power streams through her hands, warm like a spring breeze, sharp with the crackle of power. The child’s pallor fades away as colour floods his cheeks, the indented ribs and cracked limbs and awkward angle to his neck straightening, shifting before her very eyes until he is _whole._

The mother stops screaming. The child in her arms squirms his way upright, bursts into tears, and flings his arms around her like he’ll never let go. The shouts around them die down, a hush falling over the crowd as the mother hugs her child back, closing her eyes and holding him tight.

“It’s a miracle,” someone in the crowd whispers.

“Sorcery,” another says, quieter still.

Miriam tries to smile when the mother looks at her, tears streaming down her face. She wishes that she had Matthew here, his rosary and his faith lending credence to what she’s done.

“Thank you,” the mother says through her tears. “Thank you, thank you, how –“

“I don’t know,” Miriam says, quiet, hoping her voice won’t carry. “Miracles happen, I suppose.”

(she doesn’t see the man who nudges his friend, pointing at the charm around her neck, the one arabella had made just for her, the one that she promised would bring good luck and protection.

“that ain’t no cross,” he whispers. “’s a fucking devil charm.”)

She feels the weight of someone at her back, and looks up to see Clayton hovering behind her. He crouches, puts a hand on her elbow.

“We need to go,” he breathes. “Come on. Gotta catch our stagecoach, after all.”

She catches on quickly, thank god. She nods to him, then catches the mother’s hand and squeezes it, just once. Then they’re gone, Clayton whisking her away in the direction of the hotel before anyone can stop them.

* * *

“Grab your bags, then we’ll head to the livery, get our horses,” Clayton mutters to her as they walk briskly down the streets. “Town like this, magic like that, it’s just askin’ for trouble.”

“I ain’t sorry,” she snaps, struggling to keep up with his much longer strides. He slows, just a tick, his face softening as he looks at her.

“You did good. Saved that boy’s life.”

She swallows, nods.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Better safe than sorry,” she mutters.

“Exactly.”

* * *

She’d never really unpacked, and knew Clayton hadn’t either. They shouldn’t be long, but this will be so much better if they have their things, the food and water they keep in their saddle bags.

The doorman hands them their keys when they rush through the door, raising an eyebrow at their haste.

“You folks ain’t stayin’? Thought you’d be here until Tuesday.”

“Change of plans,” Clayton says, in a tone that makes it clear that he’s not willing to talk about it. The doorman nods, and backs off.

They clamber upstairs, parting at their respective doors.

Three minutes later Clayton is in her room, saddlebags in hand, waiting impatiently as she secures the last of her things.

His shoulders settle as she stands, slings the bag over her shoulders, and follows him out the door.

Three minutes was somehow, still, too long.

* * *

Somehow, somehow, for all their haste, for all Clayton’s paranoia, they missed the murmurs of the crowd, the man that snapped that this was witchcraft, that it ain’t _right_. The pleas of the mother get drowned out as men who fear what they cannot control and women who hate what they do not know gather, start shouting, start grabbing ropes and guns.

The proverbial pitchforks have come out.

(they ought to know by now; no good deed goes unpunished)

* * *

The mob is waiting when they clatter down the stairs, swarming in and around the front entrance. They notice too late, too focused on getting away to realize the danger before it strikes. And by then, they are overwhelmed, the crowd folding in around them.

There are just so many of them, shouting and swarming them before they can react. Hands are grabbing her, ripping her away from Clayton, yanking her bags rifle from her hands. She sees someone club Clayton across the head as he’s reaching for his colts, sees him drop like a bag of bricks, and she knows what they do to witches, knows what they do to people who keep their company. She panics and thrashes but their hands are strong and she can’t let this happen can’t let them kill him –

(and she’s already broken the seal and made a deal and if it worked in her favour, if it let her save one child than maybe it will let her save another - )

She closes her eyes.

* * *

“Back so soon?” the Dealer asks wryly.

“Lay out the cards,” she snarls, slamming into her chair. There’s no hesitancy now, no fear. Maybe there should be, but there isn’t.

“And what would you bet?” the Dealer asks, that same eerie smile creeping across it’s face.

She thinks of blood, of thunder, of Matthew throwing out his hands and shouting about the lord as lightning pours from his body. She bets high, higher than she should.

* * *

She does not win.

* * *

The world flashes back to colour and sounds as the energy brewing in her palms backfires, travelling up her hands and into her core. She cries out at the pain, and the hands holding her disappear as static electricity sizzles through her skin. She’s left breathless, wracked with pain, and barely able to stand.

“See?” one of the men snaps, wrapping a tentative hand back around her arm. The grip solidifies when he finds that the electricity is gone, turning bruising in an instant. “She’s a fucking _witch,_ what’d I tell ya?”

Another man steps closer, grabs the pendant hanging against her breastbone and yanks viciously, ripping it from her neck. He sneers at her, then holds it to the crowd.

“She’s got a devil’s charm!” he hollers. “That weren’t no miracle!”

The murmurs of the crowd around them and out front of the building grow to a cacophony, shouts and yells of “burn her!” and “kill the witch!” abounding. Another hand wraps around Miriam’s wrist, while she tries to catch her breath and move sluggish limbs. They tie her hands together, rope rough on her wrists, then someone shoves a gag into her mouth as well, cruel hands pinching her jaw until her mouth falls open for them to accommodate it. She yells, or tries to, but the words disappear into the gag. Then they’re pulling her out the door, onto the porch, moving her with ease. She catches a glimpse of Clayton being dragged between two men, his body limp, a trickle of blood making its way down his face.

She is struck by a sudden awareness of how bad the situation is, and how lucky they have been in the past, for all their narrow escapes. Panic surges, and she struggles anew.

It doesn’t make any difference. The men holding her are strong, and she is weak from the backlash. The hope that she once carried is gone.

“The witch is dangerous,” a tall man with blond hair and a thick beard is yelling to the crowd. The crowd pays attention when he speaks, like he has some authority, some standing here. “She tried to use her magic on Jameson, but the power of the Lord protected him! We’ll have none of her foul magic here!”

“Burn her!” someone in the crowd shouts.

 _No,_ Miriam thinks, _no, please, please –_

She reaches for her gag, but someone is grabbing her bound hands and pulling them away, then backhanding her across the face. Through the ringing in her ears she hears the man yell again.

“We take her to the lake! Trial by water!”

“TRIAL BY WATER!” the mob roars back. Then they’re moving, all of them, dragging her along with them.

* * *

This is the first time in her life that Miriam Landisman has been gagged. (It is also the first time in her life that she will be drowned, but she’s trying not to dwell on that part.) Her words are her strength, her charm that relies so heavily on her ability to sweet-talk her way out of a situation. That ability is gone, now, as she’s dragged towards her death without even the possibility of raising her own defense. This is the sort of trial that takes place too often, in the West; a mob’s rage, a quick decision, and a life snuffed too early.

(it reminds her, for a brief, panicky moment, of the trial she witnessed of amos kinsley; a crime declared, a defense ignored, and a duel that nearly led to his death. _should_ have led to his death, had it not been for the quick thinking of matthew, the quick magic of arabella.

if this sham of a trial is what kills him, is what kills both of them – )

The path to the lake isn’t far. She almost wishes it was, that it would give her more time to figure out a way to stop this. But it isn’t, and she doesn’t, just stumbles along, furious tears pouring down her cheeks as she twists and tries to catch any glimpse of Clayton, who’s some ways behind her, still slumped between two villagers.

Finally they spill out on the banks of a small lake, water lapping at the dirt and reeds around it’s muddy edges. She sees Clayton start to stir, then, his eyes blinking and squinting at everything going on. His captors dump him on the ground, head lolling at a painful angle as he groans and coughs.

The blond is speaking, quoting Bible verses about witches and sorcery, and riling the crowd with all the ease of a Baptist preacher. Her hands are held firm, but she tries yelling at him, telling him that she isn’t this thing that they’re so sure she is, that they don’t have to _do_ this.

(she’s lied before, to protect herself; she wishes she had the chance to, now.)

It makes no difference. It makes _no_ difference, not to the crowd that can’t even hear her through the gag and over the noise of their own righteousness. Clayton is rolling to his knees, now, steadying himself on bound wrists, then reaching for the guns that have long since been taken. He looks up, sees her, and the confusion fades to fury, fear that’s reflected in her own eyes.

(she so rarely sees him afraid. it's not something she wishes to see again)

For whatever reason, he hasn’t been gagged, and he starts yelling as soon as he can. That gains him a punch to the side of the head, and while he doesn’t go down it does make him stop, for a few precious seconds, falling to the side and then struggling to get back up. Miriam struggles then too, trying to get to him, forgetting herself and her size and her captors, determined in her rage with all the ferocity of a mother bear trying to protect her cub.

But the blond man is done speaking, and the people are turning to her, as the men she is being held by drag her onto the shitty wooden dock she hadn’t even noticed. She kicks, and screams behind her gag, and still they drag her towards the water.

She’s heard that the world slows in moments like these, seconds becoming crystal clear as you take in everything all at once, as you notice your life ending.

 _Liars_ , she thinks.

Clayton shouts, and she is screaming through her gag, and the hands on her wrists tighten to bruising. Another pair grasps her ankles, and then she is airborne and _screaming_ and -

Her back hits the water.

(she never learned how to swim)

* * *

It’s strange, how quickly the lungs run out of air when one is panicking, when one hasn’t had a chance to breath before the water surrounds you, drags you under it’s placid surface. Miriam’s chest is burning, bubbles escaping past her gag as she tries to bite down on the saturated fabric, to keep what precious little air she has inside her lungs. It doesn’t change anything; she still can’t swim, still can’t make her limbs move in a way that helps her float.

(not like it would matter, anyhow; there is a mob waiting not thirty feet away and she knows that if she does not drown that they will find some other way to make her death stick)

Her dress is _heavy_ , layers of cloth soaking through and dragging her towards the floor of the lake, trapping her in the finery that she wears so well. And the lake is _deep_ , the muddy water growing darker as it pulls her to it’s depths. She thrashes, her hair floating past her face through murky water and she can’t breathe and she is _drowning -_

(and the irony of it does not escape her, the duality, that Harrison should die by fire and she by water)

( _we always were a contrary pair_ )

Just as the world starts to go grey and hazy, her fingers and feet growing numb, she feels the sickening pull of magic in her veins, the burn of power wanting to be unleashed. She closes her eyes, and lets herself fall.

* * *

“You are late,” the Dealer tells her, twisting the cards between it’s hands. “Did you not wish for aid? Did you not wish to _save_ him, to save yourself?”

“I lost,” she says, “I _lost_ , don’t you remember?”

(once bitten, twice shy)

“Try again,” the Dealer says smoothly, splitting the deck. “You must always try again, darling.”

The pet name twists poorly from its tongue, but it hits like a knife to the heart regardless. Miriam brusquely wipes a tear away before it can mark its path down her cheek. “Why? Why help me?”

The Dealer cocks its head to the side, regards her gravely. For all the lack of features in the void it calls a face, it is still easy to read.

“What is your soul worth if you are dead?” it asks. “Dear one, you’re no good to me once your heart stops beating.”

(her own words echoing back to her, _let’s keep your good heart beating, let’s keep it let’s keep it let’s -_ )

“Deal me in,” she whispers.

(she is sure she is going to die, she is _sure_ )

* * *

The spell takes hold as she settles on the lake floor. All at once, she can _breathe_ , the water that not two seconds ago was drowning her filling her lungs like air. Relief is all consuming, and she cannot help the sob that bursts from her, the strangled half-laugh at how _close_ it was. She takes a moment, there among the silt and reeds, and looks at the sun streaming through murky water.

She has never believed the Dealer to be something from God, not like Matthew does; but in this moment, she cannot deny that it feels like a miracle, that it feels like grace. That it feels like a second chance, a life returned to her hands.

(she ignores that it was this power that has nearly gotten her killed, and that without it she would have no need for saving)

She takes a moment, and she is grateful. And then she _moves._

* * *

Somehow, for all that she cannot swim, she manages to claw the gag from her mouth, to haul herself under the rickety dock and into the reeds at the edge of the lake. It’s easier, when she’s not thrashing through the water and trying to keep her face above the surface, not trying to ease the burning in her lungs. She goes slow, both out of necessity (her hands are still bound, and her skirts are heavy and cumbersome, and she still doesn’t know how to move underwater with grace and ease, for all that she can breathe the water like air) and out of caution. She doesn’t want to risk bullets and fire and all the other things that could kill her if she shows her face or if they see her moving as the water gets shallower and shallower. So she keeps low, lets her eyes emerge from the water just enough to see what’s happening, to see what they have done with Clayton.

And so it is that she is there, she _sees_ , as his fight turns from fury to despair. And she knows, she _knows_ that he thinks that she is dead, that he’s seen the air bubbles stop, seen the water still in her wake.

He’s screaming, no longer trying to get away, just trying to _hurt_ the people who he believes took her life. She has no doubt that he has decided to take as many men with him as he can, before they kill him too.

(because they will, she knows they will, just as they killed her, just as they will kill others after them)

She bites her lip and keeps from cheering as Clayton manages to get his hands around a man’s head (still bound in rope, still without his precious Colts). He twists, and the man’s head twists too, neck snapping from the pressure. She can hear the crack of his spine from where she crouches, hears the roar of the mob as their man falls dead.

The crowd goes berserk, descending on Clayton like lions on a kill. Her palms itch to _do_ something, to stop this, to not let them beat Clayton to death right before her eyes. Power is buzzing in her veins, collecting at the tips of her fingers, and she is just about to close her eyes and call on the Dealer when the blond man yells for them to stop.

And the mob listens. The mob listens, as he preaches at them, about the evils of witchcraft, about how they must not suffer a witch to live. About how Clayton, dangling limp and bloody between the men holding him, is a danger to them all. About how proper way to do this is to drown him, or hang him, or set him on fire; and don’t they already have the lake right here? Isn’t water purifying, cleansing, enough to protect them from evil and remove the stain from their town?

It makes her want to hurl, makes her fingers itch to cast a spell, to rush in with her metaphorical guns blazing.

(and she thinks that maybe, if she were a man, she would have rushed in spitting out spells and curses, determined to get him out of their grasp at the risk of her own life. but she is not, and while she is not used to sitting back and waiting at the sidelines, she also knows the strength of the long con, of making your mark believe he has won. so she sits, and she waits, and she embodies the patience she wishes she did not need)

Clayton is somehow still struggling as he’s dragged to the end of the dock. He’s barely conscious, but just enough to understand what is happening, just enough to know that he ain’t gonna live through this. She watches, heart in her throat, as they tie his kicking feet, heave him up, and throw him off the dock towards what is supposed to be his doom.

(and she knows, she _knows_ she can save him too)

There is a splash, but she is already swimming, clawing her way along the bottom of the water towards where Clayton lies. The water is murky, so murky that she worries she won’t find him until she stumbles across his body. She holds the dual awareness that the silt and clouded water is both saving her life (no one on the dock can see her as she moves, or they’d already be shooting) and risking his. If she can’t find him she can’t save him. It’s as simple as that.

( _how long can a human survive without air, how long, how long)_

She finds him. She’s lucky, she’s _so lucky_ , and she feels the waves from his movements before she sees a dark shape through the murky water that can only be him. She veers a foot to the left and then she’s patting her hands across his body. He jolts, and thrashes out at her, but she’s wrapping a hand around his arm and hauling him close, letting his bound fists thud against her stomach and then –

_Please, let me win, one last time._

* * *

It works. Somehow, impossibly, it works. She is dealt her cards, and she is lucky (so _lucky_ ), and she wins. And the Dealer’s grin feels like relief, feels like _life._

* * *

Clayton is still thrashing when she returns to her body, when she moves her hand to the first patch of bare skin she can find and gives him the protection that she carries, the one that has saved their lives. He nearly goes limp as the magic takes hold, sucking a deep lungful of water, allowing himself to breathe. Then he stills, and turns, and through the water, garbled and slurred but comprehendible, she hears him speak.

“Miriam – “

She’s wrapping her bound arms around his neck before he can finish, the sob that’s been building in her chest wrenching out of her lungs. There’s a moment, a pause, and then he’s leaning as close as he can, letting her cling to him and hold him as close as any mother longs to hold their injured child.

It’s not enough, doesn’t change the hurts (the fear), but it’s good. It’s good, and they are _here_ , and they are _alive._

“How – “

“The Dealer,” she babbles, cutting him off before he can finish his question. “I went back, I had to, I couldn’t let you _die_ – “

“But you – “

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, this is my fault – “

“It’s not.” He says it firmly enough that she stops talking. The tears are still coming, great, heaving sobs that mix with the murky water. He sounds steadier, less confused, less liable to fall over at any given moment. “Ain’t your fault. ‘S the fault of small minded men, and ungrateful sons of bitches. Alright?”

She lets the lie sit. She doesn’t have the energy to protest, to say what she knows is true.

(and if it was, would it have been worth it? their lives for that of a child, one who can grow and be strong and do good in the world – )

“Alright.”

* * *

They swim as far as they can, trying to be sure (to be _sure_ ) that they are away from where any lingerers can see them before they chance to approach the surface of the water. Miriam was lucky, and one small woman peering out from the reeds went unnoticed. But two, emerging dripping from the lake, would not be. So Clayton takes his knife from his boot, and cuts the bonds on his hands then hers, then his feet. And then they go, clawing through the silt and muck, counting down the minutes they have left.

(neither of them are good with time)

Miriam thinks, for a moment, that she is lucky that she is not afraid of the dark, of the depths, of the things that live under the surface of the water. She is afraid of water, always has been, but not for this reason. And with the threat of drowning gone (at least for the moment), she can manage it.

(that does not mean it is gone)

Before their time runs out, before the choking need for air can start clawing at their lungs and demanding it’s penance, they find themselves in shallower water, warmer, brighter. She stands up, slowly, checking the depth of the water and looking for people. Clayton tries to follow, but she shakes her head and holds him down. He’s still hurt, badly, and she doesn’t want to risk anything happening to him.

(thoughts of bullets aimed at his skull and skipping into the water around them flash through her mind and she will _not let that happen_ – )

The water is shallow, and she can touch, can lift her head out of the water. She feels the blessed warmth of the sun, and the cool kiss of the air, and looks to the dock, far behind them now. It is empty, and they are alone, and she almost cries again.

She pulls Clayton up, into the cool evening air, and out to safety.

* * *

She asks, before they start the long crawl home, if they should go back, if they should try and get their horses and the things that were stolen from them.

“Nah,” Clayton rasps, crumpled beside her in the forest. “Ain’t worth it.”

“But your guns –“ she protests.

“Guns can be replaced,” he says, choking on the water still in his lungs, pushing himself up and spitting to the side. Then he pulls her in, holds her close, his cheek pressed to the top of her head. She closes her eyes, holds him back, lets the tears fall again. “You can’t be, Mir. You can’t.”

* * *

It takes time. They are both wet, and cold, and they have to find their way back home. But somehow, they survive, they make their way through the woods until they come out on a farm, with a family who looks at them and does not fear them, who takes their lie of fleeing from bandits and having to swim at face value. Who believe them, when Miriam says that she and her son have been robbed, when she begs for their help. (she does not lie.) They feed them, give them shelter, and even sell them a horse and some necessities for the road, which Miriam pays for with the tiny gold nuggets she has sewn into the waistband of her petticoat. 

(she’s known enough hardship to always, always prepare for something such as this)

Three days later they arrive in Deadwood. Bedraggled, battered, and bruised, but alive.

(alive, alive, alive, and she will never forget how sweet the air tastes after this)

They will carry the scars from this, she knows they will. They will both feel anxiety emerge whenever one of their companions does magic, as the fear of another mob creeps in. They will both avoid water, until they can’t, until they have no choice but to swim. Miriam feels the pull of the Dealer, stronger after that, alluring with the power it carries, the protection it offers. But she doesn’t give in, doesn’t let herself endanger them again.

(she knows, despite all they say, she knows that it is her fault)

But they are alive. And for now, that’s all that matters.

(isn’t it?)

* * *

Three weeks later, Clayton disappears, Aly and Arabella in tow. Miriam doesn’t notice until they’re gone, caught up in helping Matthew around the church, in letting the sun soak into her bones as she weeds the garden. Matthew just grins sheepishly when she asks where they went, and it is to no surprise that she later finds the bottle of nitro she didn’t think they knew about gone.

“Thought a preacher weren’t supposed to encourage revenge,” she says to Matthew, raising an eyebrow. He laughs in response.

“I’m sure the Lord can forgive me this time.”

* * *

They ride back in a week later, looking victorious and none the worse for wear. Miriam shakes her head, but the clutch of worry in her chest disappears. She pulls Clayton in for a hug, whispers thank you in his ear. 

“Ain’t nothin’,” he says as he hugs her back. “Had a few buildings to burn. That’s all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope y'all enjoyed!! I adore Miriam so much, and its a lot of fun to play with her as a parental figure. Also the idea of Miriam (who does not use magic in canon) getting accused of witchcraft was just too fun to play with. For the curious, Miriam uses the spells "Greater Healing" and then "Environmental Protection" from Deadlands Reloaded. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and thanks so much to everyone who has left them already!! Y'all are the best. I'm also on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi if you want!


	12. Arabella (possession, mourning loved one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t mean to,” Cynthia whispers through Miriam’s mouth as she curls up on the floor, presses against the invisible boundary and looks at Arabella with all the love that she’s been missing. “She came to the graveyard, and I just…” she looks down at Miriam’s hands, at the chips of painted nails. “It was so easy.”
> 
> “Why now?” Arabella asks, mouth dry and full of ash. “Why her, why… it’s been a year.”
> 
> ( _Since your death, since I had to kill you a second time, since we buried your rotting corpse._ )
> 
> Cynthia smiles sadly, and it’s so easy to see it now, to see the way she twists Miriam’s mouth into the mirror of Arabella’s grin. “I missed you. So much, sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! 
> 
> Just a week left, we're coming to the end!
> 
> Today's prompt fills are no. 15 (possession), and yet another prompt from day no. 19 (mourning a loved one). This started with the intent for it to be Miriam whump, but then became heavily focused on Arabella. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: possession, grief and mourning, discussions of death of a loved one, hurt with no comfort.

She doesn’t notice that anything is wrong, at first. Miriam is quieter than usual, but that happened sometimes. It does with both of them, when days come where the grief from their various losses clutch at their throats, making it hard to maintain the mask of being fine. They’d been learning, slowly, to let the masks slip even when they aren’t needed, to let themselves be vulnerable with each other. They all have, this tiny little family that they have begun to call theirs. 

So at first she thinks that’s what this is, that Miriam is being hit with the waves of grief that threaten to drown them at times. So she makes her tea, and lets her curl up on Arabella’s couch in the office that she’s taken over (Doc Cochran doesn’t need it anymore, and she does, so it all works out in the end). Arabella hands her a good book, and offers her a blanket, and lets Miriam stay quiet and contemplative.

But one day passes, then two, then a week has gone by and Miriam is still quiet, still wide-eyed and distant and so unbearably sad. Even her mannerisms had changed, some of the confidence gone, some of the charm softened into bashfulness. And she kept close, far closer than they were accustomed to, staying for days on end in Arabella’s office. It was worrisome, and felt off in ways that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

But then she catches Miriam twirling her hair around her finger as she read, and biting at her no longer perfectly painted nails. She catches Miriam forgetting her own name, stumbling over the words like they’re foreign, like they’re new. That very evening, heart in her throat, she listens as Miriam turns down whisky at the bar.

“Oh no,” Miriam says with a laugh. “I couldn’t.”

And she _knows_ now, what is wrong _._

_How could this happen how could this -_

* * *

She prepares the containment circle carefully, methodically, charcoal scraped across a dark wooden floor of her office, less noticeable than chalk. Arabella is smart, but she is also clever, and knows how to lay a trap. And perhaps, in another time, she would have asked for help. But that is not this time, and she is not that girl, and so she lays the trap by herself instead.

It’s simple, really. Miriam will come over to curl up on her couch, and Arabella will let her walk across the charcoal-covered floor. And if she is herself, she will go freely.

But she is not herself, and for all her cleverness and all her plans Arabella isn’t really sure how to respond when the thing that is not Miriam walks across the charcoal-covered floor and freezes, her face draining of colour. She whirls, and tries to leave, but the circle is sound, and it holds, an invisible wall keeping her in place.

(Arabella always has been good at her work.)

“Arabella,” Miriam says, voice calmer than her clenched fists and panicked face would suggest. “What is this?”

Arabella is already picking up salt and sage and stepping away, grabbing the tome that Miriam had asked about two days ago, the one Arabella had lied about. Her hands are shaking, because she can’t do this wrong, she can’t risk her friend like that. This thing that is hiding in Miriam’s body has been there too long, and the wrongness of it settles in Arabella to her core.

“I don’t know what you are,” Arabella said slowly. “But you have to go.”

Miriam’s face goes white, and she pushes against the circle. “No,” she gasps, “please, no, Arabella, don’t -"

“You need to _go_ ,” Arabella snarls. This thing is a parasite, and she needs to cut it out, purify it with her rituals and her magic. She feels the energy thrum through her veins, hears the sound of cards shuffling in the distance. Her nails bite into her palms. The tome is heavy in her arm, and she focuses on the page, her anger making things sharp, crystalline.

“ _No_ ,” Miriam cries again, tears streaming down her face now. The thing (the demon, the monster, the ghost) controlling her presses both palms against the invisible wall, straining, reaching, pleading. “Arabella,” the thing that is not Miriam, her voice breaking on the word, twisting into something so _familiar_ that Arabella can’t help but look at her.

“Sister,” the being says, her voice lilting into a soft Georgia drawl, “dear heart, it’s _me_.”

Arabella’s heart breaks.

* * *

“I didn’t mean to,” Cynthia whispers through Miriam’s mouth as she curls up on the floor, presses against the invisible boundary and looks at Arabella with all the love that she’s been missing. “She came to the graveyard, and I just…” she looks down at Miriam’s hands, at the chips of painted nails. “It was so _easy._ ”

“Why now?” Arabella asks, mouth dry and full of ash. “Why her, why… it’s been a _year_.”

_(Since your death, since I had to kill you a second time, since we buried your rotting corpse.)_

Cynthia smiles sadly, and it’s so easy to see it now, to see the way she twists Miriam’s mouth into the mirror of Arabella’s grin. “I missed you. So much, sister.”

The “you don’t come to see me” hangs in the air, and Arabella feels a twist of guilt. Cynthia’s grave has been farther and farther from her mind, these days. She’d thought it was a sign of healing.

“I’m sorry,” she says, then brushes the tears from her cheeks. “I miss you too.”

“Please,” Cynthia whispers, pressing her palm flat against the wall of the circle. “Please, sister, will you let me stay?”

* * *

Arabella smudges the line of charcoal, then gathers her sister in her arms, hugging her like she’ll never let her go. Then she bundles her onto the sofa with a blanket, and brings her tea, and they sit and talk for hours.

She lets her stay, and she hates herself for it. She knows it’s a betrayal, knows that it’s stealing the life of her friend for the life of her sister. But at the core of it, Arabella has always known that if an opportunity ever presents itself, she will take it; she’s always been a selfish creature. 

And how could she say no? This is a _gift,_ one that she cannot refuse.

* * *

The others don’t notice. It’s been a two weeks now, since she realized, since she let her sister steal her friend’s body. Two weeks of long talks, and laughter, and more tears than she’d thought she had left. They have the time now, to say what was left unsaid when Cynthia died. And it’s lovely, and she loves her, and she still misses her with all her heart.

(They discuss Eugene, and although Cynthia does not come and see him, Arabella’s heart settles as she watches the soft look on her sister’s face, the wistfulness that Arabella’s not sure what to do with.

“He was kind to me,” is what Cynthia says. Arabella believes her, but that does not make her love him.)

Doubt creeps in as she starts to notice glitches, signs and warning that maybe, just maybe, she chose wrong. There’s the afternoon when she comes to the office to find Miriam standing in the foyer, frozen in place, the muscles of her face twitching as some internal battle takes place. Two days later she finds her staring out the window, frozen again, tears streaming down her face. The next morning she finds a note, hastily written in a shaky hand, buried in her journal.

“Help me” is all it says. 

Arabella leaves it where she found it, and tucks her journal back on her bookshelf.

* * *

It can’t last forever. It _can’t_ , she knows this, knows that it was finite to begin with. But as much as she knows she can’t keep Cynthia, that something has to break, she also knows that she cannot lose her. Not again. Not after the last time, after the _dust blood grit and bright sunlight_ , after the thud of Cynthia’s corpse as it hit the ground. She _can’t_.

But then she finds Cynthia gritting her teeth and wiping a smear of blood from Miriam’s nose, and looks more closely. Sees the pallor of her skin, the lankiness of her hair. And she understands, with a clarity that she wishes she did not possess: Cynthia is killing Miriam, and the body that she has stolen.

She hasn’t thought too closely on how Cynthia’s life has meant Miriam’s death, how it has meant that this vibrant woman will disappear. But now she must, because now not only her soul will die; her body will, too.

Later she will feel a sickening guilt at the realization that she was only willing to save her friend when it became clear that not doing so would mean the end of her sister, too. But for now there is only grief, and resignation.

* * *

Arabella hangs her tear catcher back around her neck, and gathers her charcoal, her sage, and her salt. She draws lines, and circles, and lets her tears mingle with the charcoal to make something stronger, something better. Something that she can’t smudge away so easily, something to remind her that she loves Miriam, too.

(She hopes Miriam will still love her after this.)

Cynthia beams when she comes in, a bright smile in a pallid face, and Arabella pulls her into a hug. She buries her nose in Cynthia’s hair, breathes in the scent of her perfume, the one Arabella had given back two weeks ago, and bites back the tears. Cynthia laughs, but holds her close.

“Don’t worry, little sister,” she says when Arabella clings, longer than she should. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Arabella swallows, and nods, and lets her go, let her walk across the floor until she can’t, until the invisible barrier of the containment circle prevents her from going forward. Cynthia’s smile fades, her smile dissolving into something furious, something scared. She turns slowly to look at Arabella, to take in the tears now running down her face.

“Why?” Cynthia whispers, pressing her hand against the wall. “Sister, I thought you loved me.”

“I do,” Arabella says, clutching her components so hard her hands hurt. “I love you so damn much. But you’re killing her, and I love her, too.”

It doesn’t take long. A minute, maybe less, Arabella’s chanting filling the space as the spell swirls and grows around them. Cynthia is crying, and slamming her fists against the barrier, but Arabella can’t stop, can’t look at her or listen to her because if she does, then she’ll never finish this. And she is willing to live with many sins, willing to carry many weights, but this is no longer one of them she can bear.

Miriam’s body crumbles to the ground as Cynthia’s spirit is forced from it, as all that she was disappears into shadow and smoke, her last words ringing in Arabella’s ears.

“How could you let me go?”

* * *

“What did you see?” she asks, as she wraps Miriam in a blanket and checks her pulse. Miriam pulls away as tears start streaming down her pallid cheeks.

“Everything.”

* * *

It takes three weeks for the colour to return to Miriam’s cheeks, for her hands to stop shaking and her tears to slow. She won’t come to the office, won’t sit on Arabella’s couch and drink her tea and chatter her ear off about town gossip. Arabella misses her, and she misses Cynthia, and she hates herself letting it happen.

(And the grief, the grief surges like a tidal wave, and it's so hard to see the shore that was once steady beneath her feet.)

Miriam never tells Arabella that it wasn’t her fault. And she never tells her that she forgives her.

“I understand,” is all she says, about a month later, as they’re sitting at the Gem and sipping whiskey, barely looking at each other. “I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same, if it had been my Harrison.”

“I’m sorry,” Arabella whispers. She is, and she isn’t, all at the same time. And that more than anything is why there is this gulf between them.

Miriam looks at her, something like pity in her eyes. “I know.”

* * *

It takes time. It takes time, it takes time, like it always does. But things get better, they do. Arabella visits her sister's grave, and she cries, and she starts to find her feet again. Miriam stops staying away, starts smiling more, even if she never does sit on that sofa and drink Arabella’s tea again. But that is how these things go; while they become easier, the memory and the knowledge of what happened never completely dissipates.

Maybe it’s better that way, Arabella wonders. Maybe if she doesn’t forget, and if Miriam keeps that extra inch of distance between them, then she won’t make the same mistake again. Maybe she won't let her love of her sister threaten all she holds dear.

(She always was a selfish creature.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope y'all enjoyed! I don't know what it is about Arabella that makes her so very good for emotional whump and sad endings, but it keeps happening.
> 
> Come say hi on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/) if you feel like it!


	13. Matthew (extreme weather, power outage, panic attacks) (Clayton/Matthew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storms didn’t sound like combat. Not really, or so Matthew had said the first time this had happened. But something about the loss of power, the flashes of light and the cracks of thunder across the sky, and the way their old house sometimes shook held a powerful potential to trigger Matthew anyway.
> 
> “That’s how PTSD works, unfortuantely” one of the first therapists they’d found had explained to Matthew. "Your brain creates a trigger to try and help keep you safe. It’s just not helpful now, when you’re not in any danger, and when your system gives you panic attacks instead of a nice adrenaline rush that would help your run to safety.”
> 
> “My brain sucks,” Matthew had muttered after he relayed it to Clayton. Clayton had leaned up and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
> 
> “Maybe,” he’d said. “But it kept you alive, and it’s keepin’ you alive, so I love it.”
> 
> Chapter 13: There is a storm, and Matthew has a panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks!! 
> 
> I'm super excited for this one, I hope y'all like it. It's a modern au, set in a yet to be written au where Matthew is a tattoo artist, and Clayton owns a flower shop. (Yes, I am planning a tattoo parlour/flower shop au lol. It is in the infancy stages and was prompted entirely by this ficlet.) 
> 
> Many thanks to Baebadook for the prompt for this one! She had requested modern au Clayton and Matthew who they live together and have dogs, and where during a storm Matthew gets triggered due to some combat-related trauma and a cozy power-outage turns into a panic attack. This prompt was a lot of fun, thanks for the request! 
> 
> Whumptober prompts covered in this chapter are day no. 27 (extreme weather, power outage) and no. 18 (panic attacks). 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter are: panic attacks, acclimate weather (thunderstorms, high winds, windows being broken by storms), discussions of mental health and trauma.

“Clayton! Will you bring me another beer?”

Clayton opened the fridge and snagged a can of Labatt Blue for Matthew, then one of Ecliptic’s Starburst IPA for himself. Tucking both of them under his arm, he stuck a chip in his mouth then grabbed the bowl and headed for the living room.

“Here, love,” he said as he set the chip bowl on the side table, pressing the can into Matthew’s waiting hand. “C’mon, Molls **,** shove over.”

Molly whined as Clayton shoved her over, pressing into the space left between her and Matthew. Barely a second had passed before she was wiggling into his lap and curling up on top of him, nudging her head against the hand not holding his beer. He huffed, but scratched her head anyway, as Sadie curled up on his feet.

A hand landed on his thigh, squeezing once then staying in place. When Clayton looked over Matthew was smiling at him, eyes crinkled up at the edges. He leaned over and gave Clayton a kiss, all salt and beer and the press of chapped lips. Clayton smiled against his lips, felt Matthew smile back in response.

“Thanks, darlin’. Ready for the Cowboys to get slaughtered when half-time’s over?”

Clayton snorted and shook his head. “You fuckin’ wish, Mason.”

“Oh it’s _Mason_ now, is it?” Matthew elbowed him gleefully, making a sound in mock outrage when Clayton shoved back at him half-heartedly.

“On game day, it is.”

Matthew laughed and looped his arm over Clayton’s shoulders, holding him close as Clayton nestled into his side.

“You’re only pissy ‘cause the Seahawks are up by three points.”

“Why you cheer for Seattle, I’ll never fuckin’ know.” Clayton muttered as Matthew pressed a kiss to his hair. “Quiet now, the game’s startin’ again.”

* * *

There was five minutes left on the clock when the power went out. Matthew groaned, and Clayton swore, then stood up, depositing Molly back on the couch.

“I’ll go check the breakers,” he muttered, fumbling for the flashlight on his phone. Not a split second later, lightning flashed through the nearby window. They both stopped, counting. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. As if on cue, raindrops spattered against the windows. 

“Fuck,” Clayton said, turning back to Matthew. “Guess it ain’t the breakers.”

Matthew sighed, then stood up, phone-made flashlight in hand. “I’ll get the flashlights and candles.”

“And I’ll get the thunder shirts.”

Matthew grabbed his hand before Clayton could head upstairs. “Clay? Could you grab my headphones too?”

Clayton nodded, and squeezed his hand. “Of course, love.”

Matthew’s look of relief shattered as thunder cracked again, louder this time. The grip on Clayton’s hand got tighter, and he shifted his weight, ready to cover Matthew’s ears if he needed to. The moment passed, and Matthew let out a breath, then gave Clayton a shaky smile.

“Do you wanna say with the girls while I go get everything?” Clayton asked. Matthew bit his lip, and Clayton squeezed his hand again. “It ain’t a weakness, Matty.”

Matthew took a deep breath, then visibly forced his shoulders down from around his ears.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be better.”

Clayton nodded and leaned up to give him a quick kiss. “Alright. You get cozy, I’ll be back in a sec. Holler if you need me.”

“Alright. I’ll be okay.”

* * *

Clayton ran to the mudroom,digging into their box of dog things until he found not one, not two, but three thunder shirts in various sizes. He ran back into the living room and dropped them on the couch beside Matthew, where he was currently curled up with Molly in his lap, Bess pressed in close at his other side, and Sadie at his feet.

“Wait and I’ll help with them,” Clayton said, and then he was running into the kitchen and digging around for batteries and flashlights and spare candles. The armload got dumped on their coffee table, and he handed a small flashlight to Matthew, who stuck it in his pocket. Clayton put his own headlamp on, then dug into his jeans, pressing his lighter into Matthew’s hand. “Light the purple candle for me, will you? It smells good.”

Matthew huffed out a shaky laugh, and Clayton grinned, then headed for the stairs. He went to their linens closet first, digging around for extra blankets. He made sure to grab the especially soft one, the one that Matthew said always reminded him of cozy fall days, and tucked it under his arm. The next stop was Matthew’s office for his headphones. Clayton paused at his desk, looked around, and grabbed his husband’s well-worn Bible too.

_Never can tell what’s gonna help._

Another flash of lightning lit up their bedroom window, and Clayton held still, counting. _Five. Ten. Fifteen._

Thunder cracked overhead, louder than before. Clayton cursed, and hurried out of the bedroom.

_It’s getting closer._

* * *

When he got back downstairs, arms full of blankets and headphones and the Bible, Matthew was still huddled on the couch, Molly in his arms and the other two dogs pressed in close. He was leaning forwards around the armful of dog and trying to light a candle, but even in the thin light of his headlamp Clayton could see that his hands were shaking. He dumped the blankets on the couch beside Matthew, then flicked the headphones on and pressed them into Matthew’s hand. He held out his hand for the lighter. 

“Trade ya.”

Matthew laughed shakily and dropped the lighter in his hand, then shoved the headphones over his ears, relief flickering across his face. Clayton smiled, and Matthew smiled back.

“That a bit better?”

“Yeah,” Matthew said, his voice a touch too quiet, as it always was when he wore the headphones. He’d explained, once, how wearing them somehow made his own voice echo louder inside his head, how he didn’t notice when his volume dropped. Clayton had learned to listen harder, and to speak louder in turn, so that Matthew could always hear him over the muffled quiet the headphones brought. Matthew wouldn’t even wear them when he was alone, because the quiet felt too unsafe, but with Clayton and the dogs there, he’d let Clayton take care of their safety.

It was a humbling sort of trust.

Matthew leaned forward as Clayton swept the purple blanket around his shoulders, letting Clayton tuck him it in around Molly and him. A fond look crossed his face, and he caught Clayton’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Thanks, darlin’.”

Clayton smiled. “Of course.”

* * *

It took him a few minutes to light all the candles, working the lighter clumsily and cussing while Matthew curled back into the couch and laughed at him. He didn’t try to hide the smile that curled his lips up at the corners at the sound. Storms were such a touchy thing for Matthew, with so much potential to trigger him. But he couldn’t deny that he felt a bit of relief at seeing Matthew smile, of hearing him laugh. Maybe this one wouldn’t be so bad.

Storms didn’t sound like combat. Not really, or so Matthew had said the first time this had happened. But something about the loss of power, the flashes of light and the cracks of thunder across the sky, and the way their old house sometimes shook held a powerful potential to trigger Matthew anyway.

“That’s how PTSD works, unfortunately,,” one of the first therapists they’d found had explained to Matthew, who had repeated it to Clayton nearly line for line. “The safety system in your brain latches onto something, anything, that it thinks is indicative of danger. And then it hones in on it, and that something becomes a trigger. It could be the colour red, or it could be the shake of a building and the sound of thunder. Your brain thinks that if it can notice that trigger next time, it can keep you safe. So when a trigger happens, it kicks you into fight flight or freeze, and gives you a better chance to survive. It’s just not helpful now, when you’re not in any danger, and when your system gives you panic attacks instead of a nice adrenaline rush that would help your run to safety."

“My brain sucks,” Matthew had muttered after he relayed it to Clayton. Clayton had leaned up and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Maybe,” he’d said. “But it kept you alive, and it’s keepin’ you alive, so I love it.”

Matthew had pressed his face against Clayton’s neck and wrapped his arms around Clayton’s waist, tucking his broad self into Clayton’s hold, like he could shield him and keep him safe.

“You sap,” he’d mumbled against Clayton’s skin. Clayton had smiled, and pressed another kiss to his cheek, and held him close.

The noise-cancelling headphones had been a godsend. They’d tried a weighted blanket, but it just made Matthew more panicky, reminding him of the heaviness of the combat vests he’d worn on his tour. So instead Clayton had claimed it, and snuggled with it when Matthew wasn’t home. It wasn’t exactly as good as Matthew’s heavy arm slung over his waist, but it was an acceptable substitute.

Clayton lit the last candle, cursing as the lighter bit his fingertips again. He scowled at Matthew’s grin, then nodded towards the Bible sitting beside Matthew on the couch.

“Want me to read to you?”

Matthew looked at it, then back at Clayton, that fond look creasing his eyes again. “You brought me my Bible.”

Clayton hunched his shoulders as warmth bloomed in his chest, fidgeting with the lighter and looking down. “Yeah,” he said. “Thought it might help.”

A socked foot nudged his arm, and when he looked up Matthew was smiling at him again. “Thanks, love. I’d love it if you read to me. Maybe not the Bible though? Not yet, at least.”

“Alright. You got any requests?”

Matthew shrugged. “Something easy?”

“Easy I can do. How about Jurassic Park? I’ve got Name of the Wind down here, too.”

“Hmmm. Maybe Name of the Wind?” Matthew hesitated. “I don’t… know that fighting’s a good idea right now.”

Clayton nodded. “Sure, love. Fantasy it is. We can start when he gets to the University? Skip some of the sad bits at the start?”

“Perfect.” Matthew cracked another smile, then nudged Clayton with his foot again. “We gotta do the dogs first, though.”

“Shit, right.”

Clayton got up and snagged the book from where it sat on the little table at the other end of the sofa. He tossed it in Matthew’s lap then hauled Sadie to her feet with a cluck of his tongue.

“C’mon, love. Let’s get you kitted out.”

* * *

When all three dogs were dressed in their thunder vests, Clayton shoved his way between Matthew and Bess, curling up beside his husband and letting the pitbull try and worm her way into his side. She and Molly were sucks, and hated thunderstorms.Sadie didn’t like them either, but she was content to curl up on their feet for most of it. Clayton was never sure if Bess and Molly’s insistence on being held was because of their own fears, or because of Matthew’s; either way, they all seemed to gain comfort from it, and so Clayton was happy let them all pile together until the storm was over.

There was a time when the closeness would have made him squirmy, would have made him itch to get away. But now it just settled his shoulders, reminded him of all the good things in his life. He picked up Name of the Wind, pressed a kiss to Bess’ head, then started to read. Matthew leaned heavily on his shoulder, stroked Molly’s fur, and listened.

* * *

It was all well and good until the wind tore a branch off their tree, sending it crashing through their kitchen window and shattering the little bit of calm that they’d managed to create. They both jumped at the shatter of breaking glass, the howl of the wind that flooded through their house. The tree cracked again, another branch breaking off and smacking into the side of the house. Matthew flinched hard against him, hands flying up in front of his face in a classic defensive pose. Molly yelped and huddled against Matthew, both of them now shaking as Clayton shushed them and tried (rather unsuccessfully) to gather both of them into his arms.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Clayton said, loud over the thundering of his own heart. Matthew looked at him, wide-eyed and gasping for air.

_Shit. Already in a panic attack._

Another crack sounded through the air, and more glass tinkled against the kitchen floor.

“Fuck,” Clayton muttered. “We gotta move, it ain’t safe up here. Matty? _Matty._ ”

He waited until Matthew was looking at him, terror stricken and pale.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “We gotta go to the basement, there’s too many windows in here.”

He shifted, trying to stand, but Matthew clung to him harder, keeping him pinned to the couch. He buried his face in Clayton’s neck, breathing hard against his skin, Molly a warm weight pressed patiently between them.

“Clay,” he gasped, “’s too much.”

Thunder cracked, and Matthew jerked, arms tightening painfully around Clayton’s shoulders. Clayton shushed him, smoothing big circles around his back.

“I know, love, I know. C’mon, we _have_ to move.”

Matthew nodded, and Clayton shifted enough to shoo Molly out from between them, then pulled Matthew to standing, still wrapped around Clayton like a limpet.

“Gotta let go for a second, love,” Clayton said softly, still rubbing circles in his back. “Let me pick up stuff, then we can go downstairs.”

Matthew sucked in a breath, then pulled away, waiting while Clayton draped the soft purple blanket over his shoulders and picked up the various flashlights. Clayton blew out the candles, stuck his lighter in his pocket, then made for the stairs.

One of Matthew’s hands grabbed the back of his shirt, clutching the worn material between his shoulderblades, using it as an anchor as they made their way downstairs, the dogs scrambling to run down ahead of them. He paused and waited while Matthew closed the door behind them, shutting out the storm upstairs.

An unexpected quiet fell over the space. Clayton gave a small sigh of relief, then kicked himself for not thinking to come down here sooner. It wasn’t his favourite place to be, all unfinished cold concrete and wood, and he tended to forget that spending time down here was an option. They kept meaning to finish it, but it somehow never became a priority, so it was mainly storage, with the exception of the shitty area rug and half-broken old sofa that they’d stuck down here should they ever need it.

(They’d also kept it because Clayton was a sap, and had a hard time getting rid of previously loved things now that he had a home, an _actual_ home, and a space to store them. He’d spent so long with nothing, with having to leave things behind at the slightest threat, and now he found himself trying to keep everything. And well, Matthew let him, looking fond and indulgent when Clayton hesitantly suggested that they put their old sofa, the shitty one they’d bought for fifty bucks at a thrift store, in the basement when they upgraded to better furniture. He held the same look when he’d found Clayton sitting in the middle of their office space, old books and knickknacks all around him, looking lost as he tried to put together a box for the thrift store.

“You don’t have to give it away,” he’d said softly, crouching in front of Clayton and curling his fingers back around the tiny porcelain horse and cowboy, the one that Arabella had bought him as a joke. “It’s okay to keep things, love.”

“But I don’t need them,” Clayton had said, struggling to understand why this was suddenly so hard. They were just knickknacks, they weren’t _important_. “They’re…” he waved, his hand, trying to explain without words.

“Even if you don’t need them, they’re still things you like.” Matthew had pressed a kiss to his brow, then picked up a stack of old books and wedged them back onto the shelf. “We can always get rid of them later.”

That made it easier, knowing that he didn’t have to throw away the things he still wanted, for some inexplicable reason. It made it easier to build new bookshelves, to make new space, to move things into the basement where they could make the space _theirs_. It somehow made the clutch in his chest ease, seeing the signs of their life all around them, and knowing the memories they carried. The signs of permanence.)

Clayton made for the sofa, picking his way carefully across the cold cement floor with the thin stream of light from his headlamp, Matthew close at his heels. He dumped his armful of flashlights on the far end of the sofa, followed by the book he’d remembered to bring, and Matthew’s Bible **.** By the time he had turned around Matthew was already there, wrapping himself around Clayton and hunching to bury his face in his neck. The dogs swarmed around their feet, threatening to trip them as shivering bodies pressed into their legs. 

“You’re okay,” Clayton put his palm in between Matthew’s shoulderblades, pressed until they were molded together, until he was sure Matthew could feel the heat from his palm through the blanket and t-shirt he wore. Clayton’s other hand went down his side, landing on Molly, stroking her shaking head. Matthew’s gasping breath echoed through the basement. “Breathe with me, Matty. C’mon, slow it down, in one two three… and out…”

They stayed that way, the dogs huddled at their feet, waiting for Matthew’s breathing to even out. It took time, but eventually Matthew’s breath deepened and he pulled away, shuffling backwards to collapse on the couch. He pulled Clayton onto the couch beside him, and an instant later the dogs piled on. Molly crawled into Matthew’s lap, and Bess settled on the cushion beside him. Sadie decided to join too, wedging herself into the remaining space and setting her massive head on Clayton’s lap as Matthew curled into his side.

A muffled crash came from upstairs. All five of them jumped, the dogs and Matthew burrowing deeper into Clayton immediately after.

“We’re okay, we’re okay,” Clayton said, wrapping one arm around Matthew’s broad shoulders and squeezing him tight, hand petting the skin he could touch. Sadie crawled further into his lap, trying to fit herself between him and Matthew. He pet her too, his hand sure on her soft fur. “You’re okay too, girl. You don’t need to try and push Matty out, there’s plenty of love for everyone.”

Matthew snorted, and Clayton smiled at the sound.

“She just forgets how giant she is,” Matthew said shakily. He was still tense, and his breathing was still far faster and shallower than Clayton would have liked, but he was engaging, he was present, at least somewhat. One of his hands landed beside Clayton’s on Sadie’s ears, while his other stayed buried in Molly’s fur, who was still curled up on his lap and huddled close.

(Clayton had never figured out if Molly’s insistence on being held during storms was because of how much she hated them, or how much Matthew needed comfort. She was good like that, good at knowing when Matthew needed space, or when he needed a warm furry weight on his lap. They’d been lucky to find her. They’d been lucky to find the others, too.)

Clayton laughed at Matthew’s words. “You ain’t wrong. Ain’t that right Sade? You’re just a lapdog who grew too big for laps.”

Sadie looked up with sad eyes, and both of them laughed this time, giggling at the dog’s mournful expression.

“Sorry, pup, we’ll still let you be a lapdog anyway.”

Things fell quiet for a moment, and then Matthew’s voice broke the stillness.

“Would you read again? Or talk?”

Clayton nodded, and pressed a kiss to Matthew’s head, nestled on his shoulder. “Of course. Which would you rather?”

“Maybe… maybe just talk. Anything, just…”

_Just distract me._

Clayton hummed, and shifted his shoulders, settling back further into the couch. “Have I ever told you about the time that Arabella and Miriam broke into the flower shop?”

Matthew laughed. “Yeah. Tell me again?”

“It was only like… maybe only three or four weeks after I’d opened the damn thing, and I was just getting to know the neighbourhood…”

* * *

He kept talking until Matthew fell asleep on his shoulder. Bess had started snoring on the other end of the couch long before, and Sadie and Molly were both slumped and drooling on him, a good sign that the thunder that he was sure they could hear even in the basement had passed on. He was sure Matthew would be drooling soon too, and that he’d wake up with a damp spot on his shoulder and Matthew’s sleep-talk in his ear. The crick in his neck would be worth it, and so would the numb shoulder and arm he’d undoubtedly wake up with.

In the morning, they’d wake up, and stumble upstairs to assess the damage and get dressed. Clayton would feed the dogs in the mudroom while Matthew turned off the tv and put their phones on their chargers. Clayton would call one of his kids and have them open the shop for him, and Matthew would cancel his appointments for the day at the tattoo parlour. Then they’d all pile into the car to go pick up a shitty breakfast from McDonalds so they could have coffee and some form of food in their bellies before they tried to clean anything up. They’d sit in the dog park, drink their shitty coffee and eat their shitty breakfasts, and let the girls chase each other till they wandered back, tired and happy. Later, later they would head home, clean up the kitchen and call the window repair shop. Clayton would go in to the shop, and Matthew would come with him, sitting in the back room and drawing flowers and pretty things all day while Clayton made bouquets and arrangements and brought Matthew tea and a box of the local chocolates they sold.

In the morning, things would be good. In the morning, things would be alright.

And here was the truth of it: for all Matthew’s triggers and panic, for all Clayton’s nightmares and fear, things were always good, because they had each other. Things were always alright, because they were together, here, with their dogs and their flowers and their tattoos. With their life that they’d created.

It was alright, and it was good. And so they were alright, and they were good.

Clayton closed his eyes, rested his head against Matthew’s, and let himself fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading y'all, I hope you enjoyed! Clayton and Matty's dogs are all rescues, and I love them very much. Bess is a caramel coloured pitbull, Molly is a black and white border collie, and Sadie is a grey great dane. I also just... love these soft husbands so much, y'all. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, check back in like... 3-6 months for a flowershop/tattoo parlour au XD
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! I'm also on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi if you want!


	14. Aloysius (ignoring an injury, wound reveal, chronic pain, infection) (Aloysius/Clayton)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is infected. When did y’ get hurt?” Clayton’s voice is calm, too calm, and that alone is what tells Aly how pissed he probably is. Aly closes his eyes, shakes his head.
> 
> “It wasn’t –“
> 
> “I swear to god, if you say it wasn’t important, I’m gonna –“ Clayton stops, breathes, hands tightening minutely on Aly’s before they turn soft and soothing once more. “You’re important, Aly. You gotta fuckin’ – fuckin’ take care of yourself when you get hurt. Or tell us, for chrissakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Sorry for the delay on this one. I've been feeling pretty burnt out the past couple weeks, so whumptober stuff got set aside for a few days. On an exciting note: this chapter marks 31+ prompts finished, which makes me a whumptober completionist (yay!). Even though I'm done as much as I need to, I'm still planning on finishing at least one more ficlet for Clayton and for Miriam, so there's three up for each of the Deadwood five. They definitely won't be up by the 31st, but hopefully sometime in the first few weeks of November.
> 
> Thanks for stickin' around, and to everyone who's left comments and kudos! Y'all are wonderful <3 
> 
> Prompts covered in this chapter are for days no. 30 (ignoring an injury, wound reveal) and no. 21 (chronic pain, infection). This one started as an angsty Aly piece, and then... somehow turned into a soft AlyClay romance by the end. Which is probably not that surprising. 
> 
> Chapter warnings include: injury, reference to gun violence, hiding an injury, infection, medical care. There is one mention of a needle; if you need to skip that, it's right after this line: “Just a bit of minor surgery,” she says brightly, when Aly asks her what she’s doing.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

He gets hurt more often than he would like to. It’s a hazard of the job, an accepted risk, an unavoidable cost. And while he doesn’t like it, he’s used to it, to the pain and the healing process. He’s used to caring for his own wounds, too, stiching himself back together and wrapping his skin in whatever bandages he can find. So when he gets shot during a job, the bullet skipping across his ribs and tearing his skin but not piercing it, he acknowledges it, banadages it, and goes on with his life.

“You hurt?” Arabella asks with a frown, when she sees him wince after a stretch.

“It’s fine,” Aly says, with a grin that’s more convincing than it should be, “I’ve had worse before.”

(He thinks of the old wound that twists his leg, the way it aches and aches for days on end, the way the pain becomes nigh unbearable at times. This, this is nothing. This is a slice of fire across his side, a stitch in his breath, nothing that he can’t handle.)

“Alright,” she says, refocusing back on her reading. “I'm happy to patch you up, though.”

“I’ll let you know if I need it,” he lies.

She nods, and they go about their work, and that is that.

(It gets worse.)

* * *

He forgets about it. He means to take care of it, to clean it and stitch it and do more than slap a shoddy bandage on it and call it a day. But the day is long, and there are more important things than a wound, just as there are more important things than the way his leg twists and throbs in time with his heart. He’s used to working through the pain; this is no different.

So he gets caught up in the job, and he forgets, the ache across his ribs becoming just another piece in the various hurts that are always there. He forgets, and the shoddy bandage does it job, keeping the blood in place and hiding his wound from the world. He forgets, and this becomes just another bad pain week, one where it all blends together into something to be pushed down.

(He forgets, but he also ignores, because he’s fine, he’s _fine_.)

Aloysius knows the limitations of his body, and most of the time he remembers to take care of it, to sleep just that little bit even if he wakes up screaming, to patch his bloody wounds properly or at least clean the goddamn things. But he’s also human, and humans are fallible, and too goddamn good at ignoring pain when it’s part of their daily experiences.

But then it gets worse, and he _can’t_ ignore it; but by then its too late, and the fever has already set in.

* * *

It’s Clayton who notices. (Of _course_ it’s Clayton who notices, with his keen eyes and sharp gaze that follows Aly too often, that darts away when he thinks he’s been caught. Aly knows that Clayton is watching him, because Aly is watching Clayton too, cataloguing the lines of his body and the way his hands move, the smiles that always seem to catch him off-guard.) He sees the shake in Aly’s hands, the bead of sweat at his brow, the glaze in his eyes. The next thing Aly knows, there’s a hand at his elbow, and Clayton’s face swims into view, brow furrowed with concern. 

“You alright?” Clayton asks. Before Aly can respond the underside of Clayton’s wrist is pressing against his forehead, cool against the heat under his skin. Later he’ll blame the fever and the fuzziness in his head for the way his eyes slip shut, the way he leans into the touch and tries to keep from shaking.

Clayton pulls away, and he’s frowning when Aly manages to open his eyes. “You’re burning up. You sick?”

“No,” Aly lies. “Just warm.”

Clayton’s frown turns into a scowl. “Tell me that without slurrin’ your words and maybe I’ll believe you.”

Stubbornness rises in his chest, and Aly finds himself scowling back, leaning away from Clayton’s touch. He wills his spine straighter, wills his hands steady, and moves. 

“I’m fine,” he lies again (or maybe he’s telling the truth, maybe he believes it; it’s so hard to tell, when you’re used to being not-fine). The ringing in his ears grows louder, the world slipping out of focus around him. His own voice feels far away, distant. “Just didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Aly, fuckin’ – will you _wait_?”

He doesn’t even see Clayton move, and maybe that’s the sign that all is not well, that he shouldn’t be trying to ride out and do this goddamn job when he can’t even keep track of what’s happening. Clayton’s hands are on his shoulders, slowing him down, and he’s saying… he’s saying something…

The world tunnels.

* * *

When things splinter back into focus, bright and jagged as cut glass, he’s flat on his back. There are rough wooden boards underneath him, and someone’s hands are on his shoulder, his cheek.

“Go ‘way,” he slurs, or he tries to at least.

“ _God_ you fuckin’ scared me,” Clayton says. He looks worried when Aly manages to open his eyes and focus on his face, and that’s not a look Aly wants to see on him.

“Sorry.”

Clayton’s face softens, and a thumb strokes across Aly’s cheek. He leans into the touch, cool leather gloves a balm against his hot skin. “Can you stand? We oughtta get you back to the hotel.”

He nods, and in the space between thoughts Clayton is hauling him to his feet, pulling his arm over Clayton’s shoulders. He makes a noise when the movement pulls sickeningly at his ribs, some choked off thing half-way between a groan and a cry, the world tunneling again. _God_ , he _hurts_. Why does he hurt, where did it come from?

If Clayton says something he misses it, everything blurring together in confusion and noise and pain. The body keeping him upright keeps moving, guiding him down the street, into a building, up a narrow staircase. He cries out again as they’re pressed together, the body close to his brushing against the fire he can finally feel in his ribs.

_How long has that been there how long what did I miss –_

(He remembers, hazily, a slipshod bandage and a trickle of blood, but not enough to worry about, it should have been _fine_ -)

He’s being dragged through a door, then lowered to a bed, and Clayton’s speaking again. (He’s so quiet, he’s always so quiet, has so few words until they burst from him in irate torrents, but now he sounds worried why does he sound so worried he shouldn’t -)

Clayton’s hands are working his buttons, and Aly tries to help, but his hands are lead and fingers thick and clumsy. He doesn’t know why Clayton’s undressing him, but he’s not going to argue. A hand touches his side, then moves higher, peels away his shirt from the spot that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Clayton sucks in a breath.

“Holy fuck Aly, what happened…”

Fingers press gingerly against his side, but even that gentle touch makes the pain sharpen, dark spots flitting into the edges of his vision.

“Stop,” he gasps, flailing weakly at Clayton. Strong hands catch his, holding him still.

“Hey, hey, alright, I ain’t gonna touch.“

Aly stops struggling, gasping for air as he tries to push back the pain. Clayton’s hands turn soothing, thumbs smoothing circles on the back of his knuckles as he waits Aly out.

“This is infected. When did y’ get hurt?” Clayton’s voice is calm, too calm, and that alone is what tells Aly how pissed he probably is. Aly closes his eyes, shakes his head.

“It wasn’t –“

“I swear to _god_ , if you say it wasn’t important, I’m gonna –“ Clayton stops, breathes, hands tightening minutely on Aly’s before they turn soft and soothing once more. “You’re important, Aly. You gotta fuckin’ – fuckin’ take _care_ of yourself when you get hurt. Or tell us, for chrissakes.”

Aly swallows down the lump in his throat, the tears that threaten to emerge. (He should be stronger than this, he should, he should.) “Alright,” he rasps. “I’ll try.”

There’s a whisper of movement, then soft lips press against his brow. He blinks open his eyes to stare at Clayton, heat that he knows ain’t from the fever rising in his cheeks. Clayton blinks back at him, looking just as surprised by his own actions. Then he looks away, swallows, a bright red flush rising in his cheeks. Aly feels a grin cross his face, slow and lazy-like, the one good thing in all of this. 

Clayton squeezes his hands again, darts a glance back at his face. He relaxes at Aly’s grin, a tentative smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “I’ll hold you to it.”

* * *

Clayton undresses him with careful hands and tucks him into bed, then disappears to send for Arabella. It’s not how Aly would have wanted to be undressed by him, but he’s too tired and sick and sore to think about anything other than how good the cool sheets feel against his skin. He knows that Clayton can be gentle, has seen it anytime the other man handles a horse or interacts with a child, but it’s different experiencing it for himself.

He drifts, rousing to sip water from Clayton’s waterskin, then again when Arabella’s cold hands press against his wrist, taking his pulse.

“You’re an idiot,” she says flatly when Aly rolls his face towards her. “And you lied to me.”

“Sorry,” he slurs, feeling a twinge of guilt. “Didn’t mean to.”

“To be an idiot, or to lie to me?”

He frowns, trying to parse out an answer. He can’t, so he says what he knows. “I didn’t… didn’t really feel it, I forgot.”

Arabella raises one sharp eyebrow. “You didn’t feel it?” she touches the skin beside the wound, and Aly sucks in a sharp breath, arching away from her touch. “Aly, it’s _bad_. You shoulda let me clean it, we could’ve avoided this whole thing.”

He closes his eyes and breathes. “’S been a bad pain week, Bells. I just…”

“You didn’t notice,” Clayton says softly. Aly swallows and nods, glad for the sudden reminder that he’s there too, that Aly isn’t alone with Arabella and her cold hands and her sharp questions.

(He loves her, he does, but he… he needs the softness of Clayton’s drawl, the warmth in his eyes, the weight of his presence and the safety it brings.)

“Aly. If the pain is that bad, you can _tell_ me,” Arabella says. “There are things that could help, medicines –“

“No,” he says softly. “I don’t need nothin’.”

“Aly, you –“

“Maybe the lecture can wait for later?” Clayton says drily, cutting off what Aly’s sure was about to be a wonderful rant. “If the man doesn’t want painkillers, he doesn’t have to take them. But that wound needs tendin’, and we need to get his fever down.”

There’s a tense moment, and Aly is sure that if he were to open his eyes he’d see Arabella and Clayton glaring at each other. It’s new, having someone willing to back him up, to protect him from even such as this. He thinks that he likes it.

Arabella sighs, and he knows that Clayton has won. “Fine. Clayton, go fetch me a bowl of clean water, will ya?”

Aly opens his eyes to see Clayton glaring at Arabella again. She scowls back. “I promise I won’t lecture him while you’re gone.”

There’s a light touch to his foot through the covers, and then Clayton leaves. Arabella turns, notices that Aly is watching and smiles half-heartedly.

“Come on then, let’s get this cleaned.”

* * *

Cleaning the wound hurts. It hurts a _lot,_ pushing the pain higher and higher until he's shaking from it. He’s only awake for part of it, Clayton’s hands holding his torso in place as Arabella does her work.

“Just a bit of minor surgery,” she says brightly, when Aly asks her what she’s doing. “Gonna give you something while I work, just to keep you steady.”

Before he can say no, or ask what it is, she’s slipping a needle under his skin, and then everything disappears.

(It’s probably for the better.)

* * *

The next few days are hazy. The fever wanes, then surges anew, leaving him weak and asleep more often than not. He catches glimpses of his friends, Miriam holding his hand, Matthew praying at the foot of his bed, Arabella cleaning his wounds. And Clayton, always Clayton. His hand at Aly’s back, propping him up for a drink of water; his voice, calm and steady, reaching through the fog of fever; his smile whenever Aly’s awake long enough to converse. One night Aly wakes when it’s still dark, and finds Clayton still there, slumped over in his chair with his head pillowed on Aly’s bedspread, hair loose and just brushing the tips of Aly’s fingers.

It takes his breath away. It’s new, this care, this closeness. It’s new, and it’s a bit terrifying. But mostly it’s warm, like being cradled in someone’s arms, like the heat of the summer sun on his skin.

* * *

The fever breaks.

* * *

“Where are we?” Aly asks when he’s lucid enough to look beyond the edges of his own bed. It’s not his hotel room, or at least he’s fairly certain it’s not.

“In Clayton’s room,” Miriam says, sounding like she’s said this before. “You remember, honey, he brought you here.”

Aly shakes his head, eyes straying to Clayton, slumped over in the chair that’s been shoved into the corner of the room. He’s asleep, neck rolled back in a way that can’t be comfortable.

“I don’t remember. Why…”

Miriam smiles, gaze following his to Clayton. “He said it was the first place he thought of. I think he wanted you where he could keep an eye on you, though.”

Aly swallows, and nods, and goes back to his soup.

* * *

“Arabella’s not pissed at you,” Clayton says one day when they’re alone, when Aly’s strength has returned enough to let him sit up in bed and play cards. Clayton’s looking down at his own hand, neatly avoiding Aly’s gaze. “I don’t think she knows how to say that she’s worried without gettin’ pushy.”

Aly hums, lets his gaze sink to his cards. He knows that, now, but he’s glad to hear it anyway. Arabella’s determined, and she keeps pushing him to take morphine or other such pain relievers. He keeps saying no. He’s been down that road before, and it’s not one he wants to travel again.

“I know.” He picks up a card. “Don’t think she’s used to worryin’ for folks. It’s new to me too, so I can’t say I blame her.”

“Think it’s new for all of us,” Clayton says softly. He shifts, his knee just brushing Aly’s leg that’s dangling off the side of the bed. Aly smiles, and presses into the touch, making it solid, making it real.

* * *

He waits for Clayton to kiss him first. It’s a bit like waiting for a stray cat to approach, all patience and kindness, soft words and softer movements. But he doesn’t mind the wait; he’s always been a patient man.

There’s nothing special about the day that he does. Aly’s been getting stronger by the day, spending less time sleeping and more time awake, playing cards or reading or talking with whoever’s there. He keeps thinking about asking to be moved back to his own room, but for some reason he always stops himself. (He knows why, isn’t about to kid himself and say that it’s a mystery; he likes that Clayton wants him here, that Clayton feels some need to watch over him.) So he’s still here, sitting in Clayton’s bed, reading out loud from some dime novel that Matthew had dropped off.

(That had been a surprise, when Clayton had asked him to read out loud, after hearing Aly laugh at one too many thing he’d ready. “If you’ve got the strength, don’t push yourself or ‘Bella will kill me.”

“I’ve got another book, if you want to read one?” Aly had offered, puzzled by the request.

Clayton had ducked under his hat and picked up the deck of cards, shaking his head. Aly frowned at the way his shoulders drew up around his ears. “Ain’t much for readin’, but I don’t mind listenin’. ‘S okay, I’ll play solitaire.”

Aly had nudged Clayton’s knee with his socked foot, already cracking open the book. “Put your cards away. Readin’ aloud ain’t no problem at all.”)

He pauses in his reading, snorting at the words on the page, skimming ahead. He’s scanned three pages ahead when he remembers he’s supposed to be reading aloud, that Clayton’s waiting. When he looks up to apologize Clayton’s watching with a soft look on his face, head cocked to the side.

“What?” he asks, lowering the book to the bed. Clayton smiles and shakes his head.

“Nothin’.”

Then he leans in, touches his fingers to Aly’s cheek, and kisses him.

And _oh_ , this, _this_ is what he’s been waiting for. Clayton’s lips are chapped, and he tastes like peppermint and whisky, sweet and warm and sharp all at the same time. Aly’s eyes slip closed, his mouth parting to let Clayton in, to let the sweetness deepen between them.

He’s smiling when Clayton breaks the kiss, noses bumping softly as he leans their foreheads together.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says. He’s warm where Clayton is touching him. 

Clayton huffs a laugh. “Thought you mighta been. Sorry I took so long.”

Aly shakes his head, careful and slow so that Clayton won’t move away, won’t put distance between them. “Ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for.” He kisses Clayton again, letting it linger, letting it stay. “There ain’t no rush to this. We got all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love them so dang much, y'all. AlyClay forever. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope y'all enjoyed! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. I can be found [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi!


	15. Miriam (nightmares)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has dreams, sometimes. Shadowy things full of premonition, the weight of the future pressed upon her, crushing her with expectation. She feels the heat of flames upon her skin, sees the flash of fangs in the darkness, smells the scent of rotted flesh and gunpowder.
> 
> (she never calls them visions, never lets them be more than something that haunts her at night, never lets them settle, never lets them stay)
> 
> (they stay anyway)
> 
> Chapter 15: Miriam has nightmares, visions of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers the alt prompt "nightmares." Sort of. Originally I had some other ideas for Miriam's last chapter, but then this idea ate away at me, and that's the prompt that fits it best. Anyway, these last few are just for funsies, I'm not too worried about them fitting in neatly with prompts. This would also fit the prompts for "mourning a loved one" and "grief", but they've already been used. This doesn't feel suuuper complete, but I don't want to work on it anymore, so here ya go! 
> 
> Chapter warnings include: discussions of canonical minor character death (Harrison Landisman), substance use, canon-typical violence, spoilers for UnDeadwood episode 4 (no major character death takes place tho).

She has dreams, sometimes. Shadowy things full of premonition, the weight of the future pressed upon her, crushing her with expectation. She feels the heat of flames upon her skin, sees the flash of fangs in the darkness, smells the scent of rotted flesh and gunpowder.

(she never calls them visions, never lets them be more than something that haunts her at night, never lets them settle, never lets them stay)

(they stay anyway)

“This feels too familiar,” she says to Harrison, as she stares at a man walking into a saloon, murder on his face. She tucks her hand into her husband’s elbow, flashes him a smile that he knows not to question, and leads him away. They hear gunfire behind them.

(it’s not a vision, it’s not, it’s * _not*_ )

She ignores the dreams of flames, the ones that end with her crying into Harrison’s chest at midnight, the ones that leave her hollow. The ones that make her pick up the bottle the next morning, the ones that leave a tremble in her hands and sorrow thick in her chest. The ones that make Harrison hold her close, gentle hands pressed against the fragile wings of her shoulder blades.

“You’re okay,” he whispers in her hair. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

“Don’t leave me,” she whispers back. “Harrison, don’t –“

(she knows what the dreams mean, but she doesn’t know how to stop it, how to escape whatever future this is. and by the time she could it’s too late, and he’s dying)

His death is a slow, creeping thing, illness stealing into his body and taking him away from her. They’re on the road, and there is no way to stop this, the decay of their life together. So when they pass by a little abandoned shack they stop, and she tries to make him comfortable. He tucks her hair behind her ear, brushes the tears from her face, and cups her cheek with a gaunt hand.

“Give me a clean death?”

(and she _loves_ him, she loves him so much she would die for him, loves him so much she would kill for him)

And then he is gone, and she is alone, staring at the smoking ruins of the shack, his body turned to ash inside.

(she’s never killed someone she loves before.)

* * *

She drinks more, after he’s gone. She drinks more, and dreams less, and finds ways to go on even when she thought she never could. The photograph of them, the one that she’d thought was foolish and Harrison had insisted on, the one he’d claimed would let their children see her beauty when they became old and wrinkled – she looks at it until it’s worn, until the edges are tattered and soft. Until she’s memorized the lines of his face (as though she could ever forget).

Then she tucks it away, and wipes her tears, and continues on.

* * *

Deadwood isn’t the sort of place she wants to be without her husband at her side. It sets her teeth on edge, every part of her attuned to the constant threat everywhere she goes.

(it makes the dreams worse, too, even whiskey not keeping them at bay. she dreams of duel after duel, of men dying in the streets and the saloons, of hangings at dawn. she dreams of a graveyard, of fog drifting through the town, of the grin of rotted teeth. this place is poison, and she knows it.)

Then she’s being called in to a meeting she didn’t expect, and meeting people who are all too familiar. After riding, and fighting snakes, they fall unconscious – and they _dream._

(this isn’t like her normal dreams, this is worse, this is things from the past stealing forward to clutch at her throat and burn her heart away.

“i can give you power,” the dealer tells her.

but miriam knows what power looks like, and she doesn’t want it, doesn’t want _any_ of it. and she’s seen what comes, she’s had dreams of lightning crackling from hands and unnatural light glowing over a dark and dusty street. she knows what’s coming, in her heart of hearts, even if she doesn’t remember it all, even if she doesn’t want to know.

“i don’t want it,” she whispers. “i don’t –“

the dealer just grins.)

* * *

When they wake, they know that something has changed. It’s not until they’re riding into town, until the Dealer’s voice echoes through their heads and lights their veins blue with crackling power that they realize exactly what, and how much, and what it might mean for them.

But there are dead men walking, and that’s all that can matter for now. 

* * *

She drinks, and she does the job she was hired to do, and she tries not to remember the nightmares that haunt her. But then she can’t stop it, the creeping sense of déjà vu, the awareness that she _knows_ this, that she’s seen it before.

“This is all too familiar,” she stutters out more than once, trying to make sense of it.

(they’re not visions, they’re _not_ )

The wrongness of it all creeps in, makes her hands shake, brings the bottle to her lips again and again. She’s a strong woman, but even this is beyond her, beyond what she’s ever wanted to do. But she keeps going, because she has no other choice. It’s either keep going or die.

(magic is not a gift, it’s a death sentence, but running away was never an option)

But somehow, somehow they survive. Somehow, they kill the snake that’s threatening their town. Somehow, they _win._

(she hasn’t won in a long time)

And as they sit around a table stacked high with bags of gold, whiskey in hand, she can’t help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, life can be good. Maybe, just maybe, she can survive.

But then Aloysius is leveling his gun at Clayton’s head, asking him to step outside and she _remembers_ , she remembers the flare of guns firing and the blood seeping out from clothing, the thud of a body hitting the street -

(her husband’s death was slow, a creeping thing, but this, _this_ she can change, this is bullets flying and maybe there is one that she can stop before it pieces clayton’s heart -)

She cracks the bottle of whiskey over Aloysius’ head the moment he turns his back to her.

(and what good are her dreams if they can’t even save one man - )

“He was going to kill you,” she gasps, grabbing Clayton’s arm and pulling him out the door. “You have to _go_ , he was going to –“

(this is the first time she changes the future. it will not be the last)

* * *

Clayton is gone the next morning.

(“you’d better come back,” she said sternly, as he stepped out of the hotel, saddle bags in hand.

he grinned and tipped his hat. “we’ll see.”

she already knows that he will.)

She has breakfast with Matthew, and then they meet Arabella at the church, and start talking about rebuilding. Aloysius is gone when she returns to the hotel that evening, peace in her heart, the satisfaction of knowing that everything will work out just fine.

(she dreams, that night, of all five of them, laughing around a dinner table. they're in someone’s home, and it feels _real_ , it feels _good._

it's not the first time that she’s had a dream of good things, happy things. but it is the first one where she lets herself hope that it’ll come true, that this ain’t just a dream.)

“Think we’ll ever see them again?” Arabella asks.

Miriam links their arms together and pulls Arabella in the direction of the Gem. “I’m sure we will, sugar. I’ve got a good feelin’ about it.” She flashes a smile at Arabella’s raised eyebrow. “Sometimes you just have to trust your gut. Everything’s gonna turn out just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _adore_ the idea of seer Miriam. The times she says "this is all too familiar" in UnDeadwood stood out to me so much when I last listened to it, so I just had to do something with it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! The last one for Clayton will be up sometime in the next few weeks. I have a few older 'whump' prompt fills that I may also toss in here, now that whumptober is over. So stay tuned!


	16. Clayton (whipped, defiance) (Clayton/Matthew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe you’ll change your tune,” the dapper man said gently. “The screamin’ normally helps. But you just say the word, Reverend, and this can stop.”
> 
> He walked behind Clayton, and tapped the whip between his shoulder blades one last time, trailing it over the scars on his skin. Clayton sucked in a lungful of air, set his shoulders, and braced himself.
> 
> “Now I am sorry, but the Reverend there can end this anytime.”
> 
> Chapter 16: The dapper man wants information, and Matthew refuses to give it to him. Clayton gets whipped in an attempt to encourage him to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Here it is, the last whumptober fill I'm going to be writing this year!! I am celebrating just a little hahaha, this has been a really big undertaking for me. Thanks so much to all of you who've stuck around and keep reading these - you're all wonderful and I'm really thankful for you!! Special thanks to those who left comments and kudos over the last month and a half. 
> 
> I think I mentioned this in the end note for the last chapter - even though this is my last whumptober fill, there might still be new chapters added eventually. I've got a handful of whump prompts that had been written prior to this whumptober that have nowhere to go and don't feel long enough for their own fic, so I may clean them up and toss them in here. 
> 
> The fills covered today are for days no. 31 (whipped) and no. 11 (defiance). 
> 
> Trigger warnings include: whipping, blood, mentions of significant past physical child abuse, physical violence and injury, some self-deprecating language and guilt. Please heed the mentions of child abuse one, and avoid this if you need to.

“Now, you gonna tell us where the amulet is? I know you have it.”

Clayton scowled at the man standing in front of Matthew. They’d been jumped while they were walking home, dragged to a barn and left there for the past… however many hours, with just a guard standing over them. Time got a bit hazy when you had nothing to mark it by, no sunlight and certainly no clock. Matthew had tried a spell when they were first jumped, but it left him senseless, staring as the men had grabbed them and tied them up. Neither of them tried again. It wasn’t worth the potential cost, and they’d yet to be hurt or threatened enough to warrant it. He’d been trying to pick at his ropes, they both had, but they’d been tied good and tight, and there wasn’t much movement either of them could make without alerting the guard. He was an attentive bastard, too, quick to kick at either of them anytime they moved.

Finally whoever they’d been waiting for had arrived. A few more men had entered the barn, dragging a chair behind them. A well-dressed man followed, oozing money and smarm. Clayton hated him on sight. He’d sat in the chair and stared at Matthew, before launching into a speech about a “amulet of great power" that he wanted. Clayton remembered the amulet, a small one with a dark blue gem in the middle, one who’s name he hadn’t known. He didn’t know what had happened to it; he hadn’t been around when Matthew and Arabella had worked on it. How the dapper man knew that he didn’t have any information on it, he didn’t know, but it made him worried for what else he knew, and how long they had been watched.

The dapper man lit a cigar, and waved it in Matthew’s direction. “I’m not going to ask again. You seem like a gentleman of some intelligence, I’m sure you know how these things go if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

Matthew stared. “Gentlemen, I assure you, I don’t know what this amulet you’re speaking of is.”

And that, that was a lie. Clayton knew it. Matthew knew it. And Clayton was sure that the dapper man knew it too.

The dapper man sighed. “I really had hoped we wouldn’t have to resort to less pleasant means. Jameson, Charles, if you would.”

Two hulking men stepped towards Matthew. Clayton bristled, ready to push his way in front of Matthew, to keep him safe.

“Not him. The other one.”

_Good. Come at me, you shitheads. I can take it._

The men changed course. Clayton still withdrew as far as he could, baring his teeth and tensing himself for a fight. He knew how this would go. He wasn’t about to let it happen quietly.

“What? No, take _me_ –“

Matthew’s shouts were ignored. A hand reached for Clayton, and he kicked it sharply, the toes of his boot connecting with the man’s wrist. The man yelped and pulled back, pained expression quickly shifting to something murderous, something mean.

“ _Fuck_ – Charlie, grab his feet, he’s a fuckin’ kicker –“

And then they were _on_ him. Charlie dodged his second kick, snagging him around the ankle and slamming his foot into the ground. Another hand grabbed his second ankle, while Jameson grabbed his bound hands before Clayton could sock him.

To no one’s surprise, Jameson punched him as soon as Clayton’s hands were out of the way, meaty fist slamming into his jaw, knocking him flat. Before the stars cleared from his vision he was being hauled upright and dragged to the centre of the small barn, where a hook dangled from the overhead beam.

_Of course they’d planned for this._

Jameson and Charlie hauled his hands easily over his head, stretching him until his toes barely brushed the ground. Clayton twisted in their hold, trying to kick, but there was no purchase to be had. Cold metal wedged between his wrists, and then he was hanging, ribs stretched and shoulders screaming as he tried to stay balanced on his toes.

He wondered, briefly, if they’d meant it for someone taller, or if the height had just been a lucky guess.

“Strip him.”

James and Charlie stepped closer. Clayton caught the glint of a knife, then the two men were sawing at his shirt, tearing it off his body. He tried to twist out of their hands, skin crawling at the brush of rough hands against his bare skin, but the cold metal of a knife laid against his ribs, a casual threat at how things could go. He fell still.

“We could be doing this the easy way, you know,” the dapper man said casually, as though discussing the weather or Sunday brunch. He stood up from his chair and stripped slowly out of his jacket, then started rolling his sleeves up. Jameson and Charles ripped the last of Clayton’s shirt from him, then backed away, the knife leaving Clayton’s ribs. “It doesn’t have to be like this, preacher, just tell me what I want to know.”

Clayton made eye contact with Matthew, then shook his head. “Don’t, Matth -"

Jameson backhanded him. Clayton’s head whipped to the side, face exploding in pain, and he heard Matthew shout over the cracking of his own neck and jaw. He fell limp, all the joints in his arms screaming at the sudden weight pressed upon them.

“I wasn’t asking you,” the dapper man said softly. “I was asking the Reverend.”

Clayton rolled his head forward, blinking the stars out of his eyes. He tried to look at Matthew, to catch his eye, but Matthew’s gaze was focused past him. Past him, to where the dapper man had moved. To where Charlie was moving, a long whip in hand, one that Clayton hadn’t seen him pick up.

“Then fucking _ask_ me,” Matthew snarled, pulling against the ropes holding him against the post. Matthew was strong, but even he couldn’t pull down the barn they were tied up in. “Fucking string me up, and ask _me_.”

The dapper man tsked, then tapped Clayton’s back with something cold and hard, something that felt suspiciously like the handle of his whip. Clayton’s skin crawled, and he barely suppressed a shudder.

“Sorry Reverend,” the dapper man said in that same soft voice. “I’m not about to beat up a man of the cloth, no matter how hearty he looks.” Clayton swore he could hear the grin in his voice at his next words. “Besides, it looks like your boy here has some experience with the lash. Maybe seeing him take it again will jog your memory.”

“Don’t you fucking _dare –_ “

Clayton shoved himself back to standing on unsteady legs, trying to pull himself back into that calm centre, that place where nothing could touch him. He knew what his back looked like, the scars running up and down it. He knew how this would go.

(He’d been there before, more times than he could count; what was once more?)

“Matthew,” he said loudly, cutting Matthew’s tirade off. He smiled, trying to hide the tension and the sickening swoop to his stomach. Jameson started for him, then stopped at some movement from behind Clayton, a heavy scowl crossing his face. Clayton ignored him. “It’s alright. Ain’t gonna be the worst beatin’ I’ve had.”

The dapper man laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” He tapped Clayton’s back with the whip again, hard leather cold against his skin. “Last chance, Reverend. Where’s the fucking amulet?”

Matthew looked at Clayton despairingly. Clayton knew how this could go. He could stop this; he could ask Matthew to end it, and Matthew would give up the amulet and save him. But he also knew that Matthew wouldn’t be keeping the amulet hidden for no good reason. There was a high likelihood that Arabella had it, and that giving up it’s location would mean her death. Clayton smiled, and shook his head, only for Jameson’s fist to crack into his ear again, sending him crumpling back to hanging limply between the chains holding him upright, swaying below the ceiling beam.

He didn’t see Matthew set his jaw, or the hard glint in his eye, the one that promised death and destruction. All he heard was Matthew growl out the word “no,” and the dapper man sigh.

“Maybe you’ll change your tune,” the dapper man said gently. “The screamin’ normally helps. But you just say the word, Reverend, and this can stop.”

He walked behind Clayton, and tapped the whip between his shoulder blades one last time, trailing it over the scars on his skin. Clayton sucked in a lungful of air, set his shoulders, and braced himself.

“Now I am sorry, but the Reverend there can end this anytime.”

The whistle of a whip preceded the crack across his back, the burning lick of pain that was so goddamn familiar. It was worse than he remembered, a line of fire licking across his skin far quicker than his pa’s belt ever did.

(His pa’s belt was all heavy leather and broad bruises, welts that bled and left lines across his back that he never wanted to think about, let alone feel. He still remembered the feel of the buckle, the bite of the metal into his skin and bones, the signs of his papa’s rage.)

He lost track quickly, the fog and haze settling in as another line licked around his hip, then across his lower back. The dapper man was stronger than he’d looked, and the blows rocked Clayton forward each time they landed. Or was he moving on his own, his back arching to get away, pushing as far as the ropes holding him would allow? It didn’t matter. Matthew was shouting, but that only made it worse, so Clayton shut his eyes tight and tried to breathe as another blow landed. He could stay here, he could stay he could stay he could _stay_ –

He hardly even noticed when the whipping stopped. It was only the noise that clued him in, the crack of leather through air and against skin disappearing. But once he noticed, oh _god_ -

The absence of the whip was almost as bad, the pain roaring to new heights as heat spread across his back. It was almost as if his nerves were finally cluing in to what was happening, to the damage being done. Clayton found himself sagging in the ropes and gasping for air, struggling to fill his lungs and keep his legs steady beneath him. The pull of his arms above his head didn’t help, shoulders stretched past their limit, lungs compressed and tight. Each breath felt like a punch to his sternum, mirrored by the tug of torn skin as his shoulders moved and ribcage expanded. Pain skittered through his nerves in waves, sickening and constant. 

_Don’t fucking pass out. You can take, you’ve taken worse before you piece of shit -_

In the distance he heard the dapper man say something, indecipherable through the rushing in his ears. Another voice responded, tone low and threatening, recognition pinging at the back of his brain. 

_Matty. Can’t let them hurt Matty. Can’t let them do this to him._

“Come on,” Clayton spat out through numb lips, locking his wobbly knees and swallowing until the ringing stopped. “That all you got, you fuckin’ pussy?”

The handle of the whip tapped between his shoulder blades again. Sparks exploded behind Clayton’s eyelids, and he felt more than heard the guttural noise he made, twisting to escape the touch. Something wet and warm trickled down his skin, the nauseating scent of too much blood filling the air.

“Yes, keep mouthing off, that’s working so well for you,” the dapper man said drily, sounding like his voice was under two tonnes of water. “But, if you insist –“

The displacement of air, the man moving away from him. The shuffling of clothing, the whisper of the whip against the wooden floor. A whistle, a crack, a tearing across his skin. And again. And again. And again -

A scream filled the air.

* * *

The world whined back into focus around him. He was being moved, dragged along the floor, hanging limp between two sets of hands. His back was on _fire_ , and he was hanging onto consciousness by a thread. Someone was speaking, but he couldn’t focus on what they were saying, couldn’t hear them over the ringing in his ears, the high pitched whine that wouldn’t fucking _stop_.

Consciousness flickered in and out of his grasp, disappearing when they dropped him to the floor, and again when someone rolled him onto his side. The voices were speaking again, harsh words, then a panicked sound –

Something landed on his back, and the whining sharpened into a shriek. The distant realisation that the sound was him was overshadowed by the panicked need to move, to get whatever was touching him away from his goddamn back. Hands touched his face, his bound hands, his cheek, trying to stop him from moving. He flinched, and they disappeared, the voice stuttering to a stop. The pain simmered, not increasing, not diminishing; all he could do was endure.

A door slammed in the distance. All was quiet. Clayton drifted.

* * *

He roused to fingertips brushing his cheek. It was gentle, too goddamn gentle to be any of their captors.

“M’tty?”

A sigh of relief, the fingertips moving to comb his hair gently away from his face. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

Clayton tried to move, to turn towards Matthew, but he stopped quickly as the pain soared back to life in his back, around his ribs, over his shoulder. He stopped breathing, frozen from the pain, trying to ride it out, to stay conscious. His fingers dug into the dirt floor underneath his hand, and the whine was back, punctuated by harsh gasping breaths. Matthew’s hands cupped his cheeks, and he was talking again, faster now.

“Stop moving, stay still, you’re okay –“

“Hurts,” he gasped, turning his face into Matthew’s hand. “Matty –“

“I know. I know it does, Clay.” Matthew’s thumbs stroked over his cheekbones, smearing something wet along his skin. “It’ll be alright. Just breathe, I’ve got you.”

“No magic, Matty,” he mumbled. “No magic.”

“I know. I know. I won’t, I swear.”

He couldn’t stop shaking, but that was alright. It had to be, they didn’t have any other options. Rope still bit into his wrists, and no one had come to save them. But Matthew was here, and things would be alright. That’s what he said, and that’s what Clayton believed.

The pain died from an inferno to a fire, and he drifted.

* * *

Everything stayed hazy, after that. He had brief flashes of awareness, moments of sound and light and movement. The sharp crack of gunfire, voices yelling, the acrid scent of ozone that could only mean a spell had been cast. A scuffle, the crash of a body against wood, footsteps coming closer, pain in his back as he tried to curl away. More hands touching him, a woman cursing, an argument, a stifling quiet.

And then someone picked him up, arm under his shoulder and knees, and he was burning he was on fire he was dissolving he was -

He was gone.

* * *

He woke up face down on something soft, something that smelled like day-old sweat and ointment, pungent and herbal. Everything was numb and hazy, distressingly so, the type of numbness that only came with drugs.

_Goddammit._

“Thought I tol’ you not t’ give me morphine,” he slurred, trying to open his eyes.

A chair creaked, pages whispering as a book was closed. A scrape of chair legs across the floor, then a hand touched his, blunt fingertips grazing the palm of his hand.

“You did.” Matthew’s voice was a welcome balm, and Clayton found himself relaxing at sound of it and the confirmation that he was here. Matthew’s fingers curled carefully around his, a loose sort of hold, and Clayton opened his eyes to see a strange look pass over Matthew’s face.

“Then why ‘m I all…” Clayton tried to gesture his intent, moving the hand held in Matthew’s, forgetting that it was being held. Something tugged against his back and his shoulders, and Matthew’s other hand grabbed him, pinning his arm to the mattress as a sharp pain bit through the numbness. And _oh_ , this pain, this was _familiar._

_Fuck._

“Don’t move, sweetheart.” Matthew’s hands turned soft, soothing, thumb smoothing over his knuckles and forearm as Clayton fought to catch his breath, eyes squeezed shut again. “Do you remember? Your back – it’s hurt. It’s bad. Real bad.”

Clayton remembered the crack of a whip, the bite of corded leather across his skin, the scent of blood in the air. He found himself tensing at the memory, and oh, that hurt too.

_At least this time I’m not alone when I wake up._

“’Bella?”

The hand on Clayton’s arm moved to his hair, stroking it softly. Clayton relaxed under the touch, melting into the mattress. It wasn’t hard; the drugs made it easy to turn liquid, loose-limbed in a way he so rarely was.

“She’s alright. They found us, her and Aly and Miriam, got us out before anything worse could happen. We’re home, now. Arabella insisted on the morphine. I’m sorry, I know you don’t enjoy it.”

_Probably a good thing, if movin’ hurts this bad even with morphine._

“’S alright,” he slurred. “I trust you.”

Matthew was quiet for a long minute. When he spoke again his voice was quiet. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I should’ve stopped this.”

“Not yer fault.”

Matthew’s fingers carded through his hair. “Sure feels like it.”

Clayton frowned. He craned open his eyes to look at Matthew, who looked angry, and sad, with that lingering guilt that never seemed to fade, the one that they both carried. “Matty.” Matthew made eye contact, eyes shiny and bright. “I knew wha’ I was doin’. It ain’t your fault.”

“Still, I should’ve – especially with –“

He knew what Matthew was trying to say. _Especially with your pa, especially with the lines already runnin’ down your back._

“ _No._ ” Clayton just managed to keep himself from moving, from trying to hug Matthew, stitches and torn-up back be-damned. He settled on curling his fingers tight around Matthew’s, and glaring so that Matthew knew he was serious. “You didn’ whip me. You ain’t respons... responsible. For any of it. ‘Kay?”

Matthew smiled shakily. “Alright.”

Clayton hummed in satisfaction and let his eyes fall closed again, basking in the warmth of Matthew’s hand on his head. He knew it wasn’t over; they would have this conversation again, when he was more coherent, when he could argue his case better. When he could exorcise Matthew’s guilt more fully, and purge his own demons along with it. But for now it was enough, and his energy was fading rapidly. “Good. ‘S done, kay?”

An exhale, another shifting of weight. “If you say so.”

The heavy press of sleep was calling him, dragging him under. _Not yet, not yet._ His eyes wouldn’t open, but he managed to make his mouth work, to say one last thing before he fell.

“Stay?”

Matthew’s hand shifted, curling around nape of his neck. Soft lips pressed against his temple, the brush of stubble against his skin.

“Always, darlin’. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love beating Clayton up, I also love giving him a soft boyfriend and some comfort. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, hope you all enjoyed! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 
> 
> I can be found over on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


	17. Clayton, Matthew (chronic hanahaki, heartbreak) (Clayton/Matthew)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks after Clayton confesses, after he pours his goddamn heart out to Matthew, and after Matthew pours his goddamn heart out right back, Matthew sees him cough up flowers. Small blue and white ones; nothing like the vibrant yellow petals Matthew had seen before.
> 
> Matthew sees him cough up flowers, and his heart breaks; because it’s only been three goddamn weeks, and already Clayton is in love with someone else.
> 
> (“Bloody petals ain’t a thing you see everyday,” his mama had said, twenty-five years ago. “It means someone’s in deep, real deep, that the flowers are tearing at their insides.”
> 
> “Will they die?” Matthew had whispered, although he wasn’t Matthew back then.
> 
> “Oh no, sweetheart. You can’t die from the flowers. They just make life a living hell until the season’s over, but you can be sure they’ll be back the next spring.”
> 
> “That sounds awful,” he’d said.
> 
> His mother’s reply was simple and true. “It is.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! 
> 
> Took me a bit longer than hoped, but I've started to edit some of my older whump fills to toss up in here. These were all written for various prompts (or unprompted, because I like whump XD) from folks on the UnDeadwood discord. 
> 
> This one was unprompted, and based around the idea of chronic hanahaki - where instead of hanahaki threatening someone's life, it's more like seasonal allergies - once a year for a while the flowers come, and it's uncomfortable and painful and awful, but you won't die. Eventually it passes, but if it's unresolved by the next spring, they return. I lay no claim to the concept - I saw a tumblr thread about it (that I cannot for the life of me find, and didn't save, so apologies to whoever first conceptualized the idea) and adored the idea, as it removed a lot of the "being pressured to save someone's life" aspect. Which I really liked! 
> 
> So here you have it, some sad Clayson hanahaki. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: chronic/non-lethal hanahaki, descriptions of flowers in people's throats/vomiting up and choking on flowers (non-lethally), blood, lots of sadness, discussions/perceptions of unfaithfulness, canonical minor character death (not Clayton).

Three weeks after Clayton confesses, after he pours his goddamn heart out to Matthew, and after Matthew pours his goddamn heart out right back, Matthew sees him cough up flowers. Small blue and white ones; nothing like the vibrant yellow petals Matthew had seen before.

Matthew sees him cough up flowers, and his heart breaks; because it’s only been three goddamn weeks, and already Clayton is in love with someone else.

He’d been so sure, so _goddamn_ sure, that this would be it, for both of them; he’d seen the blood-specked petals spilling out between Clayton’s teeth, that matched the ones in his own pocket.

(“Bloody petals ain’t a thing you see everyday,” his mama had said, twenty-five years ago. “It means someone’s in deep, real deep, that the flowers are tearing at their insides.”

“Will they die?” Matthew had whispered, although he wasn’t Matthew back then.

“Oh no, sweetheart. You can’t die from the flowers. They just make life a living hell until the season’s over, but you can be sure they’ll be back the next spring.”

“That sounds awful,” he’d said.

His mother’s reply was simple and true. “It is.”)

He’d been so sure, when Clayton confessed, when he spat out that he was in love with Matthew like even the words themselves were agonizing (brutal, raw, like his heart was coming out with them); he’d been so _sure_ that it was real, that if Clayton loved him enough that his lungs were bleeding, that surely that meant they had a chance.

But now it’s three weeks later, and Clayton is in love with someone else, and Matthew feels his lungs fill back up with flowers.

* * *

It takes another week for Clayton to realize that Matthew is still coughing up flowers. Whether they came back, or they never really left, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that it means his goddamn confession was for nothing, and that Matthew’s was a goddamn lie.

_Should’ve known better, Sharpe_ , he tells himself. He’s trying to be bitter, but all he can feel is grief, crashing and deep as the ocean he’s heard about but never seen. He wonders, then, if Matthew still believes the old wives tales that you can die from the flowers, if he felt compelled to save Clayton’s life from a fate that would never come. _Ain’t it just figure that the preacher thinks you’re worthy enough to save, but not worthy enough to love._

But for all his grief, he’s also a selfish man, always has been. So when Matthew smiles at him, kisses his cheek, wraps him in his arms, he says nothing. He says nothing, just takes and takes and takes. Because even if Matthew will never love him back, isn’t it nice to pretend, just for a little while? (He knows it’ll make the love deeper, knows it’ll make the grief stronger, but he can’t bring himself to stop it; making things harder on himself ain’t nothing new.)

He knows it won’t last forever; he can’t let Matthew keep coughing up flowers, can’t let him keep pretending for Clayton’s sake. 

_Just a little longer,_ he tells himself, as he clings to every piece of love ( _of care_ , he tells himself, _of care, it ain’t love,)_ that Matthew doles out. _Just until you can deal with the heartbreak._

So he chokes on flowers, and ignores the bright yellow sunflowers that have slipped back in among the forget-me-nots that he’s not sure will ever disappear (Liam Harvey has been dead for fifteen goddamn years, and a corner of his heart is still in love with him, still grieving him, still wishing he was alive). So don’t it just figure that he’d fall in love with another bastard who won’t ever love him back.

(He misses the sorrow in Matthew’s eyes, the half-beat before he takes Clayton’s hand; Matthew is good at hiding things, after all. He’s had years and years of practice. And when you get good at hiding who you are, at trading faces and personas on a whim, hiding your sorrow is easy.)

* * *

“I know you’re not in love with me,” Clayton says, quietly. “I know you’ve still got the flowers.”

He takes Matthew by surprise, the same way his false confession did. Matthew laughs, and it’s a harsh thing, bitter and mirthless. “Pot kettle black, Clayton. I seen your flowers, I know they came back. And don’t fuckin’ tell me how I feel, you don’t know my heart.”

If Matthew were looking, he would the confusion grow on Clayton’s face, along with the hurt, the sorrow; but he’s not looking. He’s staring at the fire, fists clenched tight enough to hurt, and wishing Clayton had picked any other night than tonight, any other place than here. _Can’t you just let it sit, Clay? Can’t we pretend?_ Something dislodges in his chest and he swallows desperately. _Not now, not **now**._

“What are you talking about?” Clayton asks, bewildered.

“I saw them,” Matthew spits out. “Blue and white, small, pretty as anything. Could’ve had the decency to tell me you’d fallen for someone else.” He chokes on the last word. No, not on the last word, on the flower petals forcing their way up and out of his lungs. He doubles over coughing, spitting them out onto the ground. A hand starts rubbing his back and he wants to scream, to weep, to leave and never come back.

“How could you?” he says at last, wiping the blood from his lips. “How could you let me believe I was yours?”

“You are mine,” Clayton says, almost too quiet to hear. “And as long as you’ll have me, I’m yours.” He pulls back, wraps his arms around his knees and looks at Matthew. When Matthew finally returns his gaze, he sees tears gathering in his eyes. “I wasn’t lying, about bein’ in love with you. And that love ain’t never left.”

“Stop,” Matthew whispers. “Please, for the love of God, stop fuckin’ telling me that.”

Clayton’s shoulders hitch. He wipes at his eyes, then turns his face back towards the fire. “The flowers, the one you saw… I’ve had ‘em for sixteen years, Matthew.”

It takes Matthew longer than it should to understand what he’s hearing.

“Sixteen years?” A laugh bubbles forth unbidden. “You expect me to believe that you’ve held onto a love for someone for that fucking long and ain’t done anything about it?” He shakes his head, gathers the bloody bluebells in his hand and throws them in the fire. “If you’re gonna lie, at least make it a good one.”

Clayton hunches in on himself. “Hard to do anything about it when he’s dead.”

“…what?”

“He’s dead. Been dead a long time. It’s hard to let go of him, don’t you think I’ve tried?” The next words are just a whisper, and Matthew has to strain to hear him over the crackle and spark of his flowers burning. “There’s a reason they’re forget-me-nots.”

Matthew’s heart stops, or at least that how it feels, his chest hollowing out at the realization. “He’s dead?” Clayton nods, then buries his face in his knees. Matthew’s hands itch to reach out and touch, to provide comfort, the love he carries wanting nothing more than for Clayton to be alright. But he doesn’t let himself, not yet. Not yet. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Clay, I can’t even imagine.”

Clayton laughs and lifts his head. He wipes his eyes again, then shrugs; the movement is anything but nonchalant. “It’s fine,” he says. “Not like it matters anymore.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Matthew says. He reaches for Clayton then, moves closer and wraps him up in his arms, rests his chin on Clayton’s hair. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. “Of _course_ it matters.”

“It’s just made things a fucking mess, like it always does.” Clayton sounds exhausted, and Matthew knows the feeling. “I’m sorry, should’ve told you, I didn’t think you’d see.”

Matthew kisses his hair. “I’m sorry, too. I should’ve asked, should’ve talked to you before I let my goddamn flowers return.” He gathers himself, forces himself to ask, to clear up the goddamn doubt that still lingers. “Did you mean, it, then? That you… that you love me? That you’re _in_ love with me?”

Clayton nods against his chest. “I ain’t told you any lies, not in a long time. You’re it for me, Matty. I ain’t lookin’ for anyone else.”

Matthew can feel the flowers stirring again, just as he can feel the cough that rattles through Clayton’s body. _God, didn’t think I’d have to go through this again._

“You’re it for me too,” he whispers back. “I love you so goddamn much.”

He’s choking, then as petals and roots and whole goddamn flowers come free from his lungs. He doubles over, barely avoiding Clayton, and hears Clayton retch beside him as his own flowers come free. When it’s done he sits up, wipes his hand on his mouth, and turns to find Clayton watching him. They both have blood on their lips, but maybe that’s alright; _a testament to how painful love can be, he_ thinks.

Clayton looks at him, and gives a tentative smile, hand reaching over to slip into Matthew’s. Matthew takes in a breath, and for the first time in weeks it’s clear, and deep, and carries none of the pain and obstruction that the flowers bring.

“I love you, too.”

(“What was his name?” Matthew will ask, when Clayton is settled beside him, curled into his warmth.

“Liam,” Clayton will whisper. “Liam Harvey.”

Matthew knows the name, remembers the story, and can’t help the heartbreak that follows, for a young Amos Kinsley who fled for the murder of the man he loved; and for Clayton Sharpe, who carries his flowers to this day.

“I’m so sorry,” he will whisper back. That’s all he can say, and that’s all Clayton needs to hear.

“I know.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of us over on the UnDeadwood discord (and probably elsewhere, lets be honest) have the idea that Clayton was in love with Patrick Harvey's brother, and it's one of my fav headcanons. So this was a fun way to run with that. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, hope you enjoyed! More chapters will go up eventually. 
> 
> If you feel like saying hi, I can be found on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/)!


	18. Miriam (grief)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I… have a favour to ask.”
> 
> The question is quiet, hesitant, and Miriam feels her gut coil in nervous anticipation as Clayton examines her a bit too closely. She knows that he can tell something is wrong, but can’t bring it in herself to try and smile, to pretend that this is a simple request. A beat passes. But he nods, and her hands unclench. 
> 
> “Will you help me bury my husband? Here, in Deadwood? I’d like him… close to me. If there’s anything left to bury.”
> 
> \--
> 
> Chapter 18: Miriam and Clayton bring Harrison home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was prompted a billion years ago by afearsomecritter on the UnDeadwood discord. They'd suggested "someone or several someones go with Miriam to retrieve whatever is left of her husbands remains to bury him in deadwood," which was just too good to leave alone. Like last chapter, this was written a long time ago, but didn't feel long enough to post as it's own thing - so now it gets to go here XD 
> 
> The whumpy theme is grief. Chapter warnings include grief and mourning, mentions of death, specifically burning to death, non-graphic discussions of dead bodies, canonical minor character death (Harrison).

"I… have a favour to ask.”

The question is quiet, hesitant, and Miriam feels her gut coil in nervous anticipation as Clayton examines her a bit too closely. She knows that he can tell something is wrong, but can’t bring it in herself to try and smile, to pretend that this is a simple request. A beat passes. But he nods, and her hands unclench. 

“Of course, Miss Miriam, whatever you need.”

She gathers herself, forcing out the request that she had hoped to never have to make. But she needs to, she _needs_ to, has needed to since she left him six months ago. And now… now she has someone (more than one someone, if she needed) who can help her with the task.

“Will you help me bury my husband? Here, in Deadwood? I’d like him… close to me. If there’s anything left to bury.”

Grief twists in her chest. She thinks of the burnt corpse she left behind, buried in the collapsed and charred ruin of a shack in the middle of the desert. And even though it’s been nigh seven months since he passed, it still feels raw.

Clayton nods, slowly, then touches the back of her hand. She turns hers over, curls their fingers together like a lifeline. She doesn’t know how she’s found a brother, a son out here of all places, but she is grateful nonetheless. “When do we leave?”

She laughs, wipes the tears from the edges of her eyes, and smiles. “Tomorrow. We leave tomorrow.”

* * *

“Why me?” Clayton asks her, the second evening on the road. They’re camping under the stars, huddled in the back of the wagon they’ve brought to make things… easier. “Woulda thought you’d bring Matthew, for the prayers and such.”

Miriam gathers her thoughts, grateful for Clayton’s quiet, his ability to wait, his understanding that these things take time.

“He would’ve liked you,” she answers, watching the stars, trying to find constellations like she used to with Harrison. (“He loved the stars so much,” she wants to say, but cannot bring herself to. “We used to watch them for hours, lying on a quilt in our wagon, just like this.” She also wants to cry, to scream, to whisper that she still can’t believe he’s gone; but she doesn’t. She doesn’t.) “He would’ve been glad we were friends.”

Clayton nods, and that is that. She doesn’t mention that although their little family is growing closer, she still trusts Clayton the most; that she doesn’t need prayers, she needs someone solid, somehow who can help her through the gritty details of exhuming the remains from the burnt out building that was Harrison’s grave; that she knew he, of all of them, would listen best. Maybe someday, she will. But not now.

(Two days later she tells him about the stars; Clayton listens, follows her finger to see the constellations, and murmurs that he thinks he would have liked Harrison too.)

* * *

It takes them almost two weeks to find the shack. By then, Miriam isn’t even sure they’ll manage; it’s been six months since she stumbled away from it, blinded by her grief, trying to figure out a way to scrape together the remnants of their life without her cornerstone, without her light. She can barely remember where it was, here among the dirt and rocks and wide open spaces. Halfway between Deadwood and Cheyenne is a starting point, but there’s so much _space_ here she can hardly fathom where to begin.

It’s Clayton who spots it, the blackened bones of the shack that twist up towards the sky from a charred spot on the dirt some mile off. It’s almost impossible to see, and she’s abruptly grateful for his keen eyes, for his determination that matches her own.

(“He’s important to you,” he says, ten days into their journey when she asks him if they should give up. “So we’ll keep looking.”)

And then they’re there, and the reality of their task settles in like a heavy fog, dampening her relief, her exhaustion with sorrow. They guide the wagon closer, and then she’s staring, trying to force herself to get up and _move_ , to find her husband amongst the blackened wood that is somehow still standing, still reaching upwards with twisted, rotting fingers.

She drops the reins and gathers her skirts, but Clayton is already out of the wagon and reaching for the shovel, for the cloth they brought to wrap him in.

“Stay here,” he says gently. “I got it.”

(“I don’t need gentle,” she wants to scream, but she does, she does, she needs something to hold the sorrow in place.)

So she closes her eyes, and nods, and waits.

* * *

Miriam does not look at the body, at the fragile, charred mess that Clayton bundles in cloth and lays in their wagon with more care than she’s ever seen him use before. He shows reverence for the dead that she did not think he possessed; or perhaps, reverence for her, and her grief, and the love she will always carry for her husband. 

“Thank you,” she says through tears. It feels like she’s been crying for days, like her sorrow cannot be contained no matter what she does, like it will consume her. It’s not safe to cry, in Deadwood; but out here, out here she can weep, and weep, and weep. Clayton just holds her hand, and gives her a shoulder to lean against, and a handkerchief when hers is ruined.

“No need to thank me,” he says, guiding the horses for home. “I said whatever you need, and I meant it.”

She nods, and looks towards the horizon, and thinks of her husband’s smile.

(“I love you,” she’ll whisper to Harrison, choking out the words beyond her tears, late at night after Clayton is asleep. “I miss you. I’m sorry it took me so long.”)

The wind blows through her hair, and the fog lifts away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah Miriam. I find her grief such a compelling thing to write about and explore. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed <3 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are noted and loved and appreciated. If you feel like saying hi, I can be found on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/)!


	19. Arabella (stabbing, blood loss, field surgery)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hadn’t realized it would hurt this much. It’s awful, burning and sharp and yet somehow numb all at once. And the pressure - it feels like all the air was punched from her at once, like there’s a lead block in her gut, eating away at all her innards. She can’t stop staring at the handle of the knife, still sticking out of her side, or at the bright red blood spreading across the dusty blue cotton of her dress.
> 
> _That’s going to stain,_ she thought. _How unfortunate._
> 
> Chapter 19: Arabella gets stabbed, and Clayton frets his way through field surgery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! This is yet another chapter from way back when. I can't remember who/where, but someone on the discord had prompted with the idea of being "caught by a sibling while collapsing," which I thought would be fun to write with Arabella and Clayton (who I often headcanon as having a bit of a sibling-type relationship). 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: blood, injury, stabbing, field surgery. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last couple chapters! Y'all are the best!!

She hadn’t realized it would hurt this much. It’s awful, burning and sharp and yet somehow numb all at once. And the _pressure_ \- it feels like all the air was punched from her at once, like there’s a lead block in her gut, eating away at all her innards. She can’t stop staring at the handle of the knife, still sticking out of her side, or at the bright red blood spreading across the dusty blue cotton of her dress.

_That’s going to stain_ , she thought. _How unfortunate._

“Bella,” the words reach her ears from a million miles away, echoing like she’s hearing them from the other end of a canyon. She looks up to see Clayton approaching her, hands held out like he’s going to grab her. “Bella, eyes on me, don’t touch it.”

_That’s silly_ , she thinks, _I’m a doctor, I can_ –

She tries to grab the handle, but her hands are tingling and clumsy, fingertips numb, and she bumps it instead, which rockets the burning into white hot pain that consumes her whole body. She stumbles backwards, her legs giving out just as hands catch her arms and lower her to the ground.

When she’s horizontal they disappear for a moment, then something is pressing into her stomach, hard. She shrieks and arches away from the pain, pushing with weak hands at whatever is making it so much _worse_.

Clayton’s voice filters in over the rushing in her ears, soothing and low and steady.

“I know, shhh, I know it hurts, I’m sorry but I gotta slow the bleeding -”

“Clayton,” she gasps out, wrenching her eyes open to stare at him. She can’t tear her eyes away from the smear of blood on his cheek. He pushes harder, and she chokes on whatever she was going to say next, black spots filling her vision.

She passes out for a moment, or two, she’s not sure. When she floats back into her body everything still hurts just as much. She can still feel Clayton pressing something into her side, and he’s still talking.

“- need you to wake up and hold this here. We gotta take it out Bells, gotta sew it up and stop the bleeding. Where the _fuck_ is your med bag –“

_Oh_ , she realizes. _He’s scared_.

She’s never seen him scared before.

She opens heavy eyelids to look at him, then pats his arm with one clumsy hand. “’M awake,” she slurred. “It’s in my saddlebag.”

Relief flashed across his features before he nods, then takes her hand in his, squeezing reassuringly. The blood slicking his hand diminishes the gesture somewhat.

“Need you to do something for me, ‘Bells.”

She nods, head lolling against the hard ground. Talking is too hard.

“Need you to keep your hands pressed hard against this cloth, okay? It’s gonna hurt like hell, but you gotta keep pressure on it while I get your bag? Okay?”

“’Kay,” she whispers. He smiles, squeezes her hand again, then presses it against a wad of cloth on her side. Calloused fingers grab her other hand and do the same, layering them on top of each other. He pushes down on her stacked hands, hard enough that her breath catches, and she mimics his strength as best she can with arms that feel like jelly. But then she feels the handle of the knife brushing her skin, and the fear climbs and eats her _alive_ –

“Focus on me, ‘Bells,” Clayton says, and there’s a hand on her cheek, turning her face to look at him. She locks eyes with him, and he’s solid, a reassuring presence that she knows won’t let her fail. She breathes, then again, and the panic ebbs into something more manageable. “I won’t be but a moment, alright? Keep pressure on it.”

She nods, and doesn’t break eye contact, until he smiles, fear still lingering around the edges of his eyes. And then he’s gone, running back to their horses and trying to calm hers down as it spooks at the scent of the blood on his hands.

She loses sight of him, but she can hear him as he rummages in their saddlebags. He’s talking to the horse, curse words muttered in a soothing tone, and she can’t help but smile. It’s just so goddamn _Clayton_ , to soothe with cussing, and it works on her too, easing the panic into something manageable. She keeps pressure while she waits, barely breathing around the ache in her side and the numbness growing in her hands. It feels like she’s floating, but she knows that isn’t true, because she can still feel twigs and rocks under her shoulders.

Then Clayton is back, skidding to his knees and wrenching open her bag, digging through for a needle and gut.

“You can bitch at me later about the blood I’m gettin’ on your supplies, alright?”

She laughs, and oh _god_ does it hurt. The noise cuts off as she gasps for air, hands clenching on the fabric bunched around the knife.

“Hey, hey, no, don’t laugh –“

Clayton presses his hand on top of hers, holding her steady, keeping the pressure there until she relaxes back to the dirt and takes over.

“Good girl.”

He piles clean bandages on her stomach, then swears his way through threading the needle. Then he’s back leaning over her head, touching her shoulder until she looks at him.

“I ain’t sewed a stab wound on anyone but myself before. Anything I need to know?”

She wracks her brain, trying to think, trying to remember what she’s read. “Don’ take out the knife ‘till there’s a doctor.”

Clayton laughs, a little hysterically. “We’re too far away, Bells, we won’t make it back in time. I gotta do this _now_.”

She frowns. It doesn’t make sense. She’s a doctor, why can’t she - “Why’re you sewin’ up your own stab wound, Clay?”

“It ain’t mine, ‘Bells,” he murmurs. “Focus, okay? Anything I should know about sewin’ up a stab wound?”

_Oh. Right. It’s mine._

“Keep it clean,” she murmurs. It takes her a long moment to think of anything else. Everything else is too complicated, both out of her grasp to explain in this moment and too difficult for field surgery. “Close any arteries. Cauterize it if you gotta.”

Clayton nods, then holds up a stick. “You want something to bite on? So you don’t bite your tongue?”

Arabella worries her lip, knowing what he’s insinuating. It’s going to hurt. _So_ much. She’s seen how much it hurts on the other end, and she knows it’ll be far worse than she can imagine. She nods, and Clayton holds out a stick with bloodied hands, then places it carefully between her teeth.

“Keep that pressure up.” He disappears again. When he comes back a few moments later, his hands are clean of her blood, and the red-flecked sleeves of his shirt are pushed up over his elbows. He takes the needle and gut and douses it in alcohol, then nods at her hands. “Can you move them for me?”

She does, then he’s leaning over her stomach, and she’s blinking tears out of her eyes as she stares up at the cloudless sky.

“Breathe, ‘Bella.” She does, one big lungful of air, and Clayton pulls the knife free from her gut.

It hurts. It _hurts_ , it _burns_ , and she’s glad Clayton thought of the stick. She screams, biting down as hard as she can, until Clayton pours whiskey in the wound and then things are even _worse_ -

She passes out.

* * *

When she wakes back up it’s dark out, and she’s bundled up in her bedroll. She’s sore, and exhausted, and her side _aches_ like nothing she’s ever felt. But she’s alive, she’s breathing, and she can’t feel the burn of fever in her head.

She rolls her head to the side and sees Clayton, sitting across from her, face lit up by the small fire between them.

“You did it,” she croaks. Clayton looks up, face breaking out into a relieved smile. He’s crouching in front of her in an instant.

“Did what, Bells?”

“Sewed me up.” She frowns. “I ain’t imagining it? That is what happened?”

He laughs. “Nah, you’re right. Yeah, got the bleeding stopped. Sorry, it ain’t gonna be the prettiest scar, but it’ll keep your blood where it belongs.”

Arabella smiles and shakes her head. It takes more effort than it should. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. Know you’d do the same for me.”

Her eyes slip shut. “I didn’t realize gettin’ stabbed would hurt so bad.”

Clayton hums. “It does, yes. Ain’t nothin’ quite like it. I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t get to him sooner. You shouldn’t a had to go through that.”

“Ain’t your fault,” she mumbles, trying to scowl. Her face won’t cooperate, and when she tries to move her arms they won’t listen either. “ _Ain’t_.”

It’s silent for a long minutes. She rolls her head towards him, tries to speak again, but all that comes out is a jumble of sounds.

“Shhh,” Clayton says. A calloused hand strokes her hair back from her face. “Shhh, it’s alright. I’ve got you, sister. Go to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh I just love them so much. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!


	20. Matthew (blood, greed, transformation)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man who will be Matthew comes back to life with a burning in his veins and fire in his chest, a roar bursting out of the throat that should not work. He is scales and fire, something impossible, something reborn of blood and ash and bone, of the gold that will consume them. He is rage and greed, hatred spilling forth in noxious waves of smoke bubbling from between the fangs he wears so well.
> 
> The men who killed him are dragging his corpse away from their camp when he bursts into flame, exploding into something new, something that should not exist. He twists to the sky on shaky wings, scream turning to a roar as claws burst from his skin, as he becomes and becomes and becomes.
> 
> (This thing that he is not, was not, now ever more shall be -)
> 
> Chapter 20: This is how dragons are born. From greed, from blood, from the burning sting of gold in their veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! 
> 
> This chapter was written only last week, when I got the itch to write from an old line I'd jotted down and forgotten about. Thanks to folks on the discord for all the encouragement while I wrote it! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include: blood, knives, slit throats, non-permanent major character death, transformation, mentions of hunger and poverty.

When the man who will be Matthew is a child, he is hungry more often than he is not. He is tattered clothing and long skinny limbs, he is a mouth pinched with hunger and rage, he is one of many and he is alone all at once. His family is poor, his _town_ is poor, and they are sick with it.

(But he sees the men with fine clothing, with gold in their hands, with food on their plates. And he yearns, then, for things he cannot have, for an overabundance that he cannot even imagine. He crouches, barefoot and hungry, and watches. And a seed gets planted in his heart.)

There is little in the way of opportunity for poor sons-of-bitches like him, so he leaves when he’s barely grown, even though he towers over everyone he meets. The army is always looking for bodies, and what good is his, when all it brings him is hunger and too much rage burning in his chest? He may as well make money, so he can send it home, so he can feed the mouths he left behind. The army doesn’t pay well, but hauling water for his ma pays even less.

(And maybe, just maybe, the stories he reads about finding fortune and adventure are true. Maybe he can come out rich, maybe he can show them _all_ -)

He’s still hungry, more often than not, and cold to the marrow in his bones. But he’s part of something, and isn’t that good enough? Isn’t he doing something that will make things better?

(But then he sees the actions of the men around him, the ones that he is complicit in, and finds doubt creeping in, guilt creeping in, shame creeping in.)

At the very least, he has money to send home, and a couple of extra coins for his own pockets. He can still make his fortune. He still has time.

* * *

If he believed in going to confession, he would not say that he is a greedy man. He wouldn’t say that the shine of gold makes his heart leap, makes his eyes glint, makes his hands clench for wanting. He is too used to wanting, you see, and too used to being without. How can one with nothing be greedy, when greed is the sin of men with riches to spare? And what crime is wanting the things you were promised, the wealth your family was told would be theirs for the taking, out here in the great unsettled West?

But he does not believe in confession, not yet; so he hides the wanting in his heart, and lets it fester there.

* * *

Time runs out. The fort is _burning_ , screams and gunfire in the darkness, and shadowy shapes that should not _exist_. He is afraid, he is so goddamn afraid, so he grabs the first horse he can find, slits a man’s throat to take it, and he runs and he runs and he runs –

(This is not the first blood he’s spilled, but it is the one that will haunt his name for the rest of his life.)

He keeps running, until he can’t run any longer, until the horse nearly collapses out from under him. Then he stops, cleans off the blood, and takes his bearings. He doesn’t know where he is, but that’s alright; he can find out. He’s in the hills, all rock and dirt and pine trees, all soaring heights and hidden caverns. This country is old, old as time itself, and something about it should set him on edge, but it doesn’t. It feels familiar, a whispered song calling him home, a heat beneath his bones. The river he’s riding beside is beautiful, and he forgets to be afraid. And then, without even realizing it, he forgets to be cautious. 

So the first time he spots the smoke that means he’s maybe found people, he nudges his horse to a trot, hope kindling in his chest, that maybe they can help him, maybe they can point him home. Maybe they’ll take pity on a soldier, covered in blood, and they’ll believe whatever story he tells them. He’s always been a good liar.

* * *

The camp is small, a few hard-faced men who glare at him with open suspicion, spitting tobacco at their feet as he greets them. They eye his blood-stained clothes and army revolver, but they listen to the tale he spins and agree to let him stay the night.

“You gotta ride on come mornin’,” one of them warns. “And no funny business.”

He nods, and smiles, and tries to make his broad frame and towering height seem smaller, quieter, less dangerous. There is a small flask of whiskey in his stolen saddlebag, and he barters it for a hot meal and a blanket. Curiosity gets the better of him, and he can’t help but look at the gold pans and shovels as he eats, and wonder if there are riches to be found here. When night comes, he makes his bed at the outskirts of their camp, and is too tired to sleep with one eye open.

(He should have ridden on.)

* * *

He wakes up in the night to his horse’s shrill whinny, and the flash of a knife in the moonlight. He grabs the man’s arm, wrestling against strength and leverage, adrenaline lending power to his limbs. The knife that had been aimed for his eye cuts his cheek instead, hot blood rolling down his face. He shouts and thrashes, twisting under the man, trying to gain the upper hand, barely keeping the knife from burying itself in his skull. 

“I won’t let you have our gold,” the man snarls, eyes wide in the moonlight, spittle flying in Matthew’s face, “it’s _ours_ you greedy sumbitch –“

There’s a rustle of blankets, then other voices swearing, fast and low, followed by the thud of running footsteps. Matthew shoves and twists, gets a knee up between them and manages to kick the man off him. The man lies there, wheezing and groping at his chest, and Matthew doesn’t bother trying to go for his knife, instead flipping over and groping in his bedding, trying to find his revolver, _where is his revolver_ -

Someone slams into him from behind, tackling him to the ground. A hand fists in his hair, slams his head into the dirt, and he can’t help but go limp. Just for a moment, but a moment is time enough. When he can move again it’s already too late. Someone is kneeling on his back, spitting curses, then hauling his head back again and –

(“He was here to steal our gold,” the old man says hysterically, “I know he was, I seen the goddamn look in his eyes –“

“No one will know,” the other man says, wiping blood from his face, “ain’t nobody fucking knew he was here but us – “)

\- and there is cold steel at his throat, the knife biting through his skin and he tries to scream but his voice is _gone_ and all he hears is a gurgling sound as his lifeblood spills from his throat, spraying across the rocks, seeping into the ground and gold buried there -

(There is no one around, no one but them, and the rocks and the trees and the cold hard gold. And as his sacrifice stains the ground, mimicking the greed that has stained the hearts of men, something in the man that will be Matthew _stirs_.)

* * *

You cannot make something of nothing; this is a fundamental law of the universe, a truth known since the dawn of time.

But this is not nothing. This is blood and bone and a greed so strong that he would die for it, and the bright glint of gold in men’s hearts and minds.

And Matthew _burns_.

* * *

He comes back to life with a burning in his veins and fire in his chest, a roar bursting out of the throat that should not work. He is scales and fire, something impossible, something reborn of blood and ash and bone, of the gold that will consume them. He is rage and greed, hatred spilling forth in noxious waves of smoke bubbling from between the fangs he wears so well.

The men who killed him are dragging his corpse away from their camp when he bursts into flame, exploding into something new, something that should not exist. He twists to the sky on shaky wings, scream turning to a roar as claws burst from his skin, as he becomes and becomes and _becomes_.

(This thing that he is not, was not, now ever more shall be -)

He turns to the men with gaping jaws, parts them to find that speech still rolls from his tongue, deep and broken like rocks tumbling down a mountain.

“So you have taken from me,” he hisses, snarls, roars, “now I shall take from you.”

* * *

Let us not talk about what happens next. Let us leave it where it lies, in the rocks and the scrub brush and the babbling river. Let us leave the dead to their rest, what little they may receive.

Let us only say that when he is done, the ground is rich with blood. It fills his mouth, drips from his claws, streams down his ruby-red scales, near impossible to see.

(“Scales the colour of what made you,” someone will say to him, many years later, “red for blood, orange for fire, blue for the crush of waves –“ she will stop, and smile sadly. “There’s a reason so many of our kind are red.”)

(“Why me,” he will whisper, pray, cry, “why me why me why _me_ -)

* * *

(As morning dawns, spilling soft golden light across the ground, he will claw at the ground and roar his frustration to the mountains, his terror, his rage. It is then that he will realize that the bullet wound on his foreleg does not bleed the red of his scales of their blood of the beat of a human heart. He bleeds instead a thick, sluggish gold, shining and bright as the morning, pretty as his mama’s wedding ring -)

* * *

It will take him days to learn how to hide his scales, his fangs, his claws. To shift them away, bury them under soft skin and hair and a smile that is now hard to make gentle. He, like most of his brethren, does not have the benefit, the gift of an older, wiser dragon being present at his birth. So he must fumble his way through the baby steps of magic and power and the greed that steals his breath –

(For this is how dragons are born, from greed, from blood, from the burning sting of gold in their veins.)

\- and when he manages, when he shifts back to himself, naked and gasping in the form that makes him feel suddenly so _vulnerable_ , he cannot help but wonder what he did to deserve _this_ , this monstrous thing that he’s become.

Later, he will pull on clothes that are not his, and pack a bag full of food and necessities. He will leave, and will eventually find a town, and use his golden smile and his golden words and he will leave richer than when he arrived.

(And much later, he will find a church, when the greed and the guilt and the shame and the fury that still terrifies him becomes too much. He will give them a name, and it will become his, and they will speak to him of redemption and the blood that can wash even a sinner such as him clean. Hope is hard to bear, but he will try to anyway.)

(Much later still, he will find himself in a town as greedy as he, where he will be offered more gold than he can refuse, calling to his blood and making it sing. He will meet three humans, and they will not know him for what he is. But he will also meet a woman, and she will smile at him with her golden smile, and speak to him with her golden words, and he will know that she is like him. And they will fight evil, and he will keep them alive, and wonder if it is possible to gather humans into his hoard.)

But for now, he goes to the river, and he falls to his knees. And as he shakes and shakes and shakes, buried to his elbows in the water, he thinks of wings and scales and fire, of the cold feel of gold under his palms, and tries to remember what it means to be human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write something focused on the idea that Matthew is a dragon for FOREVER so this was a nice way to finally make it happen!! I think it just suits him and his greed so dang well. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed! Thanks for reading!!


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